Memorial Day
by Lady Chal
Summary: COMPLETE: Set 18 years after ATW. As Webb and Mac prepare to spend Memorial Day weekend with family & friends, a dark secret from the past threatens their marriage and their future.
1. Default Chapter

**Rating:** PG-13

**Disclaimer: **Not mine, not making any money off of them, so please don't sue me, DPB.

**Category: **Angst/Romance with a smidgeon of Drama/Adventure here and there.

**Pairings:** Webb/Mac, (a small nod to Harm/Mac), AJ/Meredith, Sturgis/Bobbie, Gunny/Other

**Spoilers: **Everything before "A Merry Little Christmas"

**Warning! **Character Deaths (though they meet a heroic ending, if that helps any).

**Summary: **Webb and Mac prepare to enjoy a holiday weekend with their friends and family, but secrets of the past may threaten their marriage and their future. (Set 18 years in the future). 

**Author's Note: **If you can't stand the idea of Webb and Mac together, don't waste your time or mine. Just go hit the "back" button on your browser and enjoy the hundreds of other fantastic Harm/Mac pieces out there. That being said, if you're looking for a Harm-bashing fic, this isn't it, either. I actually like Harm, and I have tried to paint him as he's depicted in the show, good points, bad points, honor, heart and all. Finally, I warn everyone that this is not a "happily ever after" piece. Lot's of angst, lots of tragedy, and potentially lots of hankies required.

**Memorial Day**

**By Lady Chal**

**Chapter One**

28 MAY, 2021

16:50 ZULU

WASHINGTON ATHLETIC CLUB

WASHINGTON, D.C.

            "En Garde!"

            The clash of metal against metal echoed off the high ceilings and rang loudly throughout the large gymnasium as the two swordsmen squared off. A crowd of spectators slowly gathered to watch the combatants as they viciously attacked each other with the flashing foils. They appeared to be almost evenly matched as they pushed each other up and down the narrow white mat that was their dueling ground. So fast and furious were their movements that almost no one saw the lightning thrust made by the taller of the two combatants. Nevertheless, it scored a direct hit on the opponent's breast, triggering the small electronic sensors woven into the fabric of the tunic and registering the contact on the computerized scoreboard. A buzzer sounded and a green light flashed in the winner's field as another point was scored.

            "Touché," the man gasped, folding his foil under his arm and removing his helmet. "That's two for you. The student has bested the master. –Well done, Grasshopper."

            Rachel Turner removed her own helmet and shook her head, loosing a shining mane of tight black braids. "The student got lucky," she said, sucking in a breath. "You were off your game today, Uncle Clay." A small frown creased her warm brown features as she took in his unusually pallid complexion. "Are you feeling ok?"

            Clayton Webb accepted the towel an attendant offered him and mopped the sweat from his face. Frankly, he wasn't, but he didn't like admitting it. At 58, the gray that liberally streaked his brown hair, the lines that had deepened around his eyes and mouth, and the persistent aching of his joints all attested to the fact that he was no longer the man he used to be. However, he liked to think that his regular regimen of riding, swimming and fencing had helped to maintain at least a little of his endurance and athletic physique. Unfortunately, Rachel was right. He was definitely not up to par. Likely it was just the fact that Father Time –and maybe that Polish Dog with the extra kraut that he'd had for lunch—was finally catching up with him.

            He shook his head, still breathing hard. "No, kiddo, you won that one fair and square." He used the towel to wipe at the back of his neck. "I pronounce you ready for the trials next week."

            Her face brightened. "Really?"

            "Really," he assured her. Walking over to a nearby bench, he stowed his gear into a black athletic bag. "Between running and swimming with your father, riding and fencing with me and putting in time at the shooting range with Mac and Galindez, how can you not be?"

            Rachel tucked her foil into her own bag and looked thoughtfully at her helmet. "Tell me straight," she said levelly. "Do you really think I've got a shot at making the team?"

            He raked a hand through his hair and sat down upon the bench to rest a moment before he answered her. "I think you do," he said at last, his voice serious and his eyes sincere. "You're already better than I was when I qualified. You've had a hard time beating me, but you've got to remember that I've never really given it up. I've got a few more decades of experience behind me now." He smiled, "Heck, _I'm better now than I was then, --except for being a little long in the tooth."_

            Rachel smiled back. It was a remarkable combination of her father's pleasant demeanor and her mother's polished beauty. "Thanks, Uncle Clay."

            He shook his head. "Don't thank me," he said. "If you get this, it will be because you've earned it. –And even if you don't get it, we'll all still be proud of you. Your father already is proud of you_._ Last time I saw him up at the Pentagon, he was telling everyone about how his little girl was trying out for the Olympics."

            Rachel made a face. "The way Dad goes on about it, you'd think that I'd already won or something."

            Clay smiled.  "As far as he's concerned, you're gold medal material."

            "Oh," Rachel said, "I just remembered. Mom wanted me to ask you what time we were supposed to be at your house for the cook out. She's been out of the office all week with a cold and she hasn't seen Mac to ask her."

            Clay frowned. "Darned if I know. That's Mac's department. I'm just in charge of making sure the beer's cold and the steaks don't burn. I'll tell her to call Bobbie when I get home."

            A soft electronic chirp came from somewhere inside his bag. Reaching into it, he dug out his cell phone and flipped it open.

            "Webb," he said brusquely, staring down into the phone. There was a moment's hesitation as the video link connected and his daughter's face appeared in the tiny screen.

            At fourteen, Penelope Webb was just starting to show the promise of her mother's exotic beauty and her father's sharp good looks. Her hair was the same silky dark brown as her parents, and she had inherited her mother's delicate cheekbones and deep set eyes if not her complexion. That, she had received from her father, along with his nose and what he suspected to be his mother's chin. From time to time, she was also starting to exhibit a disturbing tendency towards his own wicked brand of sarcasm. As to her streak of bull headedness, he refused to claim it. –And God knew that sixteen years of marriage had taught him better than to point that particular finger of blame towards his wife –even if he thought it was justified.

            "Hey Daddy, I'm done with orchestra practice. Can you come and get me?"

            Webb frowned. "I thought it was your mother's turn to pick you up."

            His daughter made a face, wrinkling her delicate nose. "She called to tell me she can't. She said her car was acting funny this afternoon, so she took it in to the shop. It's still not ready."

            "I told her not to buy American," Clay grumbled. "Do we need to stop and get her, too?"

            Penny shook her head. "No, she said she was going to stay late and finish going over some depositions. Uncle Bud will bring her home."

            "All right," he sighed. "How about we grab dinner on the way? What do you want to eat? –Seafood?" He asked, hopefully. Maybe some good bread and a nice steamed soft shell crab would counteract the effects of the hot dog.

            "Beltway Burgers," his daughter replied automatically.

            Clay groaned as his stomach roiled. "How about we meet in the middle and go for Chinese?"

            Penny distributed both her displeasure and her acceptance with a long suffering sigh. "Oh, all right. When will you be here?"

            "I'm leaving now," he assured her and was about to end the call when Penny cut in.

            "Oh, I almost forgot! The phone rang as I was leaving for school this morning and there was a call for you. If I don't tell you now, I'll probably forget!"

            _Lord, Clay rolled his eyes. __Isn't that the truth! He still hadn't quite forgiven her for the time she'd taken the call from the Swedish Ambassador and forgotten to tell him about it. Then, when she had remembered, she couldn't recall who she'd talked to. Being a diplomatic number, the caller ID had been blocked, and he'd ended up phoning twenty two embassies before he'd finally gotten the right one._

            "Who was it?" he asked, trying –and failing—to keep the exasperation out of his voice.

            "It was the flower shop," Penny said, "They said your order will be ready tomorrow afternoon and that you can stop and pick it up any time after two o'clock."

            "Ok, sweetheart," he said, punching at the key pad of the cell phone. Her image momentarily disappeared to be replaced by his calendar as he entered the notation into his appointment book. "I'll see you soon."

            Disconnecting the call, he shouldered the bag and turned to Rachel. "You need a ride home?"

            Rachel shrugged. "No, that's all right. I can take the Metro."

            Clay scowled. Between being raised in the midst of Navy and Marine Corps officers and training with sword and pistol in her hopes of qualifying for the Olympic Pentathlon, he didn't doubt that she could take care of herself. Still, he didn't like the thought of her riding the train through D.C. alone. 

            "Come on," he said, "It's practically on my way, and besides, it looks like Penny and I are at loose ends for dinner. Come eat some Chinese with us. It'll be my treat."

            Frankly, he hoped she would take him up on the offer. His stomach was starting to churn so badly that he wasn't sure how much he was going to be able to eat anyhow. When he thought about it, he really didn't feel all that well. His hands felt cold and clammy, and he was starting to regret the fact that he'd dismissed his Government Issue driver early today and opted to drive himself to the club. Hell, he was starting to feel badly enough that he was starting to consider taking his chances and let Rachel drive.

            "Ok," she said slowly, "If you're sure it's not any trouble." She hesitated and shot him a worried look. "Are you _sure_ you're feeling all right? You really don't look very good."

            He offered her a tight smile as he attempted to cover the stab of indigestion. "Probably just a bad hot dog," he said, picking up his bag and heading towards the door. "Don't tell Mac, ok? She'll have a fit."

            He was halfway across the room when the first stab of pain hit him like a hot dagger between the ribs. The second jolt shot up and down his arm and he dimly realized that his fingers didn't seem to be working as the athletic bag slipped from his grasp. He struggled for breath, but he couldn't seem to draw any air into his lungs. A dim gray cloud was creeping in around the edges of his vision as his legs gave way beneath him and he fell to his knees on the polished maple floor. From somewhere far away, he was vaguely aware of Rachel calling his name. She sounded panicked, he thought. –And then the gray fog enveloped him completely.

19:55 ZULU

CARDIAC CARE UNIT

KRESGE MEDICAL CENTER  
PIMMIT HILLS, VA

            "Mrs. Webb? The Doctor will see you now."

            Sarah Mackenzie Webb gave her daughter's hand a reassuring squeeze and then followed the nurse out of the waiting room and to the tiny conference room that stood a short distance down the main hallway. She sighed as she heard the soft pad of footsteps behind her and realized that Penny had followed her, rather than remaining behind with Sturgis and Bobbie and Rachel as she had hoped she would do. Her mouth tightened into a thin line as she heard the gentle shifting of a chair and then the heavier tread of a man's footstep fall in with them as well. That would be Kennedy, she thought grimly. She had learned long ago that when it came to the CIA, nothing was sacred. –Least of all your privacy. She found it to be one of the true ironies that she and Clay had had even less of it since his appointment as DCI four years ago. Now their life seemed to be a whirl of personal drivers and body guards and security people. There were times she even suspected that the receptionist at the firm and the freckle faced courier who brought her lunch and delivered paperwork might be CIA plants.

            The nurse opened the door and ushered them into the room, indicating that they should take a seat in the two not quite comfortable overstuffed chairs. Kennedy, to his credit, took up a silent position against the wall. Grudgingly, Sarah supposed she shouldn't be too bitter with him. He was her husband's personal aide and she knew that Clay considered him a friend. –And she knew she had George to thank for the fact that there were only the three of them here, and the entire waiting room hadn't been jammed with suits. Two guards were discretely posted at Clay's room –one inside and one outside–two more at the elevators and there was probably at least one agent on every floor and more outside the hospital, but under the circumstances, Kennedy had managed to keep the CIA's presence to the bare minimum. Added to that was the fact that she knew Clay would not have it any other way. He was a man of many secrets –not all of them his own—and he would never risk national security for such a small thing as his own personal convenience.

            With a familiar sense of resignation, she pushed all thoughts of the Agency from her mind and focused her mental energies upon her daughter instead. She wasn't entirely certain that she wanted her daughter present for this conversation, especially if the news was bad, but Penny was tenacious to the point of being stubborn. She'd have liked to have blamed Clay for this irritating tendency as she did all the others, but she was entirely too aware of this particular flaw in her own personality and she could not, in good conscience, lay the fault for it entirely at her husband's feet.  Besides, she thought, it was useless to shelter Penny from this. In the end, Sarah knew, she would only be peppered by a million questions that she did not have the answer to because she was quite frankly too dazed and worried to think to ask them herself. Best just to let Penny in on it from the start and take her best shot while the Doctor was here to answer.

            The nurse appeared again, rolling in a small wheeled cart with a computer and monitor balanced atop it. A moment later the doctor followed, still garbed in his surgical scrubs. A stethoscope was draped around his neck and a surgical mask dangled beneath it.

            "Mrs. Webb? I'm Dr. Markham." 

He extended his hand and she accepted it, absently noting the smooth softness of his palm and the firm grasp of his fingers. She nodded towards Penny, who stood just at her shoulder. 

"Doctor, this is our daughter, Penny." She didn't bother to introduce Kennedy. Likely the hospital staff was well acquainted with him already, since he'd been revising their security measures for most of the afternoon.

Markham offered Penny another handshake and a pleasant smile then turned to face the nurse.

"Jane, could you bring up Mr. Webb's files for me?"

The nurse nodded and began tapping away at the computer as Markham turned back to Mac.

"How is he, Doctor?" she asked, and heard the unsteadiness in her voice.

"He's stable for now," Markham said, "but I'm afraid he's in for a bit of a rough road back to recovery."

Sitting himself in a chair opposite Sarah and Penny, he met their worried expressions with a demeanor of infinite calm.

"Your husband has suffered a massive heart attack, Mrs. Webb. It was fortunate he was not alone when it happened. The young lady who performed CPR on him undoubtedly saved his life."

Sarah nodded, blinking back tears. Rachel had been a sobbing wreck when she and Penny had found her in the emergency room upon their arrival. She had wasted no time in sending Bud to call for Sturgis and Bobbie, and it had taken several minutes for her to calm the girl sufficiently enough to get the full story out of her. She had been somewhat calmer by the time her parents had arrived. Still, it had required a good deal of convincing upon everyone's part to reassure the teenager that what had happened was not her fault. In spite of her concern, Sarah could not help but feel a small twinge of irritation with her husband. –Foolish man! Polish hot dogs indeed! From Rachel's description, he'd been exhibiting all of the classic warning signs for most of the afternoon. _God Bless that girl, she thought, __she has no idea what we owe her._

The computer hard drive whirred loudly for a moment as the files loaded and the nurse turned the monitor for all of them to see. Reaching over to the cart, the Doctor took a wireless touch pad and rolled his finger across it, selecting the image the image he wanted. The screen was suddenly filled with a slightly grainy black and white image that she realized must be Clay's heart.

Circling his finger over the pad, the doctor highlighted several areas of the picture. 

"Once we got him stabilized we ran several angiograms and an MRI. There are several blockages in the major arteries around the heart. If it weren't for the fact that he's strong and in good physical condition, it's doubtful that he would have survived."

She felt Penny's fingers close tightly around her own and squeezed them back, finding her own small measure of comfort in the gesture.

"He works out regularly," Sarah mumbled, almost to herself.

Doctor Markham nodded. "It's a good thing he did. It certainly helped him to keep fighting."

She bit her lip and silently ordered herself not lose control. The doctor in the ER had told her they'd almost lost him twice. –Once in the ambulance on the way to the hospital and again in the ER.

Markham selected another view and indicated a small, grayish white area in the middle of the picture. "I'm also somewhat concerned about this valve leading into the left ventricle," he said. "It's not working properly and it appears to have suffered some type of physical trauma in the past."

Sarah nodded quickly, thinking back to that wretched time in Syria, not long after they were first married. "He was shot," she said quietly, hating the brittle quality of her tone.

The doctor nodded briskly. "Well, combined with some of the neurological damage your husband has suffered as a result of the heart attack, it appears that the valve is not working properly. It may be necessary to schedule a valve replacement once the problem of the arterial blockage is resolved."

"What are you going to do?" Penny demanded.

"It's a simple procedure," Markham assured them. He made a few more selections with the wireless pad and brought up a computerized model of the human heart. Briefly and efficiently, he explained the processes of both operations to them.

"When do you want to do it?" Sarah asked.

"As soon as possible," Markham replied. "The valve replacement can wait a while, but the arterial blockage should be dealt with now. We have the time and the people and I see no reason to wait. I'd like to do it tonight."

Sarah took a deep breath and nodded. "All right," she said at last.

Markham smiled gently. "Jane will have some papers for you to sign. It will be a while before we get him prepped and ready."

"Can we see him?" Penny asked.

"For a few minutes," the doctor replied. "He's still a little groggy from the medication. –Not too long, though. He's very tired."

"Thank you, doctor," Sarah said quietly as Markham rose to leave.

He paused and flashed another smile. "I wouldn't worry too much," he said reassuringly. "I got look at that cheering section out there in the waiting room. –With that many people pulling for him, I'm sure he'll do just fine."

The cheering section was still waiting for them when they returned to the waiting room. Rachel was practically on pins and needles as she sat between Sturgis and Bobbie, anxiously glancing from Sarah to Penny for an indication of the news the doctor had delivered. Sarah also saw that Harriet had arrived and was sitting next to Bud with worry written in every line of her sweet face. She privately suspected that it was young A.J. fresh home from college, who had drawn the short straw in keeping an eye on his two younger siblings.

"How is he, Mac?" Sturgis asked. His voice, as always was measured and calm, but his eyes betrayed his concern.

Mac smiled weakly. "He's ok, for now, but he's not out of the woods. There are some arterial blockages. They want to take care of them right away. They're going to do the procedure yet tonight."

Reaching out, Bobbie Latham Turner took Mac's hand and grasped it firmly. "What can we do?"

Mac looked at the woman who somehow over the years had managed to become not only her friend, but her business associate and gave the question careful consideration.

"Could Penny stay with you tonight?"

"Of course," Bobbie replied.

"No!" Penny protested, almost simultaneously. "I want to stay here."

Mac shot her daughter a stern look. This was a matter upon which she would brook no argument. "They won't let both of us stay, Penny. You heard what the doctor said. Your father is very weak and tired and they don't want him to have too many visitors right now."

"I'll stay in the waiting room!" Penny pleaded.

"No," Mac said firmly. "I need to be here for your father, and I'm going to have to count on you to see that things are taken care of at home. Jack needs to be walked and both he and Tigger need to be fed and someone needs to call your Aunt Caroline in California and tell her what's happened. I'm sure Sturgis and Bobby or…" she shot a glance towards the agent who had returned to his seat in the far corner of the waiting room "…perhaps even Mr. Kennedy would be willing to bring you back here in the morning."

"I'd be glad to do it, ma'am," Kennedy put in quietly.

Mac nodded her gratitude and then looked back down to her daughter's rebellious gaze. "Can I count on you to do that for me?"

The staring contest lasted for perhaps five seconds. Fortunately, Mac had far more experience when it came to shooting murderous glares, and Penny eventually acquiesced.

"I'm not going until I see him."

Mac ruffled her hair with a gentle hand. "Of course you're not," she said.

They were all the way to the door of the glass walled chamber that was Clay's room before Penny's resolve finally faltered. She hesitated just outside the threshold and anxiously studied the motionless figure in the bed surrounded by tubes, tanks, monitors and other assorted medical equipment.

"He looks so sick, Mom," Penny whispered. She sounded unsure of herself. "Is he really going to be all right?"

Sarah wrapped an arm around her daughter's thin shoulders. She understood her reticence. She too was having a hard time reconciling her vigorous powerhouse of a husband with the fragile man in the hospital bed.

"Of course he'll be all right," Sarah said firmly. For Clay's sake she had to rally both herself and Penny. "Your father has survived car bombs, kidnappings, gunshot wounds and terrorists. If he lets himself die of something as simple as a heart attack, I'll kill him."  
            "I heard that," a thin voice muttered weakly from the bed.

"Daddy!" Penny sobbed and rushed towards him as all of her inhibitions vanished at the sound of his voice.

For a moment, Sarah feared she would try to fling herself into his arms, but the tangle of tubes and wires brought her up short at the foot of his bed. Cautiously, Penny edged her way along the bed and finally settled for dropping her head to the pillow beside him and burying her face in the hollow of his neck and shoulder. Clay closed his eyes and smiled faintly and Sarah felt the muscles in her throat constrict as one well shaped hand, swathed with tape and bearing an intravenous tube, slowly came up to stroke Penny's hair.

"Don't cry, sweetheart," Clay murmured. "Your old man's not licked yet."

Penny drew in a long shuddery breath and pressed her head tightly to her father's cheek.

"I was so scared," she said in a small, muffled voice.

"I know," Clay said, and angled his head enough to drop a clumsy kiss upon her temple. With great effort, he managed to open his eyes again and his gaze sought Sarah's over the dark head of tangled curls. "But it's over now. Don't worry. The doctors will have me fixed up and back on my feet in no time, you'll see."

Taking note of the evil eye the charge nurse was shooting through the glass in Penny's direction, Sarah decided that she'd better step in before their visit was cut even shorter.

"Penny's going to stay with Sturgis and Bobbie tonight, so she'll have to be going soon. Rachel's still pretty shaken up about everything."

"Rachel," Clay muttered, a troubled look crossing his face. "She was with me when it happened. –Christ, it must have scared the hell out of her."

"That would be putting it mildly," Sarah said, stepping up behind Penny and running a soothing hand down her back. "But she managed to keep her head. –You owe that girl your life, Clay. She was the one who started the CPR on you and she was still working on you when the paramedics got there."

Penny did not seem at all inclined to leave, and Sarah raised an eyebrow to her husband. Clay nodded almost imperceptibly and turned his head back to Penny's face again, whispering softly into her ear.

"I'll be all right, Sweet Pea," he said softly, calling her by her old child hood nickname, "but I need you to do something for me. Will you do it?"

"What?" Penny's voice, still muffled in his shoulder sounded suspiciously thick with tears.

"I need you to go out there and talk to Rachel for me. I don't think they'll let her in here and she's probably starting to worry that she did me in with all our fencing practice this afternoon."

 Sarah shook her head in amazement, wondering why after all this time she should still be surprised at his perceptiveness. This was a man who could read the minds of diplomats and politicians and some of the most powerful men in the world. Why shouldn't he be able to read the mind of a seventeen year old girl as well?

Clay drew a slow breath and Sarah could see that he was tiring, but he pushed on. "I want you to tell Rachel that I said it's not her fault. I was an idiot and I pushed myself too hard."

Sarah smiled faintly. She would certainly agree with him on that one.

"I want you to tell her that I said Thank You. –Can you do that?"

Penny nodded and sniffled loudly. Clay dropped another soft kiss into her hair. "Go on then, Sweet Pea. –And listen to your mother."

Slowly, and with obvious reluctance, Penny pulled herself away from her father and turned to go, blinking furiously with red-rimmed eyes. Sarah laid an encouraging hand upon her daughter's shoulder and paused only long enough to drop a brief kiss upon her husband's forehead before ushering Penny out of the room and down the hallway to the waiting area. There, she turned Penny over to Sturgis and Bobbie, along with her extra house key and a list of brief instructions for the alarm system and the animals and where to find Clayton's sister's telephone number. She walked with them down to the elevators, along with Bud and Harriet, and saw them off.

The Roberts stayed a moment longer, and Harriet laid her hand upon Mac's arm, her blue eyes narrowed with concern. "Are you sure you don't want us to stay with you? –At least until the procedure is over?"

Mac shook her head. "No, it's all right. It will be late and you've got the kids to worry about and Bud is going to have an early day in court tomorrow."  
            Bud nodded. "Don't worry about any thing. I'll speak to the Judge and get a continuance on your cases until next week."

"Are you sure?" Harriet asked again.

Mac nodded firmly. "I'll be fine," she assured them. All she could think about was getting back to Clay.

"Call if you need anything," Bud ordered, and escorted his wife on to the elevator. The polished steel doors closed behind them, and she was alone. –Except, of course, for the two agents posted on either side of the hallway.

As she passed the waiting room on her way back to Clay's room, she caught a glimpse of Kennedy, standing in front of the large bank of windows. His image was revealed in the lamp-lit reflection of the darkened glass and she could see by the way he was looking down into his palm that he was talking on his vid-cell. No doubt giving the latest report back to the Company, she thought, not a little unkindly and pushed on down the hallway.

At the door of Clay's room, she spared a brief nod of acknowledgement to the guard posted outside the door and stepped inside. As she entered, the second guard, who was seated inside the door, rose silently and made his exit, just as he had done a few minutes before when she and Penny had arrived. In spite of her resentment at their intrusion, she felt a small measure of grudging gratitude towards Kennedy. He hadn't had to do that. Agency protocol demanded that guards be posted and present at all times when the DCI or another such high-ranking intelligence officer was incapacitated. Still, even though it flew in the face of CIA directives, he had spoken to the guards, instructing them that Director Webb's wife and daughter were to be allowed this time alone with him. She supposed that might be part of the reason Clay had made Kennedy his aide in the first place. The man was arrogant, stuffy, and coldly professional, but like her husband, he did have a heart buried somewhere beneath those suits and ties.

She saw that he was sleeping as she crossed the room and threaded her way through the medical equipment to his bedside. His complexion was an unhealthy shade of gray, and there were faint smudges of shadows in the hollows of his eyes. She felt the worry begin to curl about her heart as she stood there, taking in the sight of him. She had always known that she might lose him, but somehow, she had never prepared herself for this.

 Every time he had set out the door with his suitcase packed and passport in hand, she had braced herself, knowing that this might be the time he didn't come back. She had prepared herself for all the usual possibilities: kidnapping, assassination, capture and execution. She had even thought of all the ways it might be done: knives, guns, garrotes, and bombs. A plane might crash, a boat might sink, or a truck might accidentally roll over a land mine, and suddenly she would receive a phone call in the middle of the night and two more men in suits and ties would come knocking on her front door.  She had spent the last fifteen years preparing herself for such wild possibilities that it had never occurred to her he could die right here, in the middle of a goddamned athletic club, of something as simple as a heart attack. It was just so …so _ordinary. It was absurd._

There was a large leather arm chair beside the window. Like the furniture in the waiting room, it was not quite comfortable; still it made a vague effort in that direction. She lifted it up and placed it quietly next to the bed at his left side, taking care to mind the snare of tubes and wires. Easing herself into it, she traced her fingers down his forearm until her palm closed gently over the bones of his wrist. The tips of her fingers curled slightly, seeking and finding the pulse point. She searched until she could feel the faint, rhythm jumping beneath his skin as it kept time with the beeping of the heart monitors. The contact reassured her somewhat, and she lowered her head to the mattress, turning her cheek into it so that she could study their joined hands. 

He had nice hands.

It was one of the first things she had noticed about him, all those years ago when she finally had seen past her own delusions enough to notice anyone other than Harmon Rabb. She recalled that day with crystal clarity. She could still see him there, standing at the window of Chegwidden's office, all buttoned up tight in his dark suit and projecting his polished aura of arrogance and authority. She could still remember his voice, his calm, measured words as he'd patiently explained why he needed her for his mission, rather than any of the numerous, qualified and perfectly adequate female operatives he could have chosen from the CIA stable. He had gestured as he spoke, and the sunlight streaming through the Admiral's window had caught on the Harvard ring he often wore, sparking a flash of gold across her line of vision. She had found herself idly studying those hands as he had presented her with his argument for why she should go with him to Paraguay, and realized that she had never really noticed them before. They were strong hands, competent and agile, with slim, tapered fingers that were still masculine without being large or blunt. However, she'd still retained enough of her critical thinking skills to remind him that she lacked one critical qualification in the role as his pregnant wife: she wasn't pregnant. His face had displayed no expression, but she'd felt pinned by his speculative gaze as those murky green eyes had swept over her, and all of her errant thoughts had flown out the window as he had tossed off that smart-assed reply.

But those hands had intrigued her. She could still remember them, fine and well shaped as they had passed that sparkling rope of platinum and diamonds across her throat, and she remembered marveling at their smooth dexterity as he had fastened the tiny catch and straightened the glittering strand to its best advantage against her skin. She could still feel the warm brush of his fingers upon her shoulder as he had turned her to survey his handiwork. The touch had left a warm tingle upon her skin, and she had looked into his downcast eyes with a surprising twinge of pique when she noticed the direction his gaze was taking. Lesser men would not have passed up the opportunity to sneak a glimpse at her chest, but his eyes were fixed steadfastly upon the diamonds at her throat. He had asked for her hand then, and slid that brilliant, sparkling, ridiculously large diamond upon her finger with strong, sure fingers. And when he raised his eyes to look squarely into hers, she had known she would never be able to look at Clayton Webb in quite the same way again.

Sliding her hand down, she curled her fingers over his palm and brushed her thumb over the bones of his wrist. His fingers flexed slightly beneath hers and she lifted her head to find herself staring into his unfocused gaze.

"Hey," she said softly, brushing her thumb across the back of his hand again.

"Hey," he whispered back, his voice still a bit groggy. Freeing his hand from hers, he reached up and touched her cheek. His thumb swept along the side of her nose to touch the dampness at the hollow of her eye. "You're crying," he murmured, but there was no hint of reproof in his voice.

Taking his hand, she pressed it more tightly to her cheek, and then quickly turned to drop a kiss against his palm. "You scared the hell out of me, Clayton Webb," she said fiercely.

"I know." He managed a wry smile. "I scared myself, too. All I could think of when it happened was that it wasn't how I planned to go."

She caught the faint teasing hint in his voice and fixed him with a sharp look. "Oh? And just how _do you plan to go?"_

"In bed. --With you."

She made an odd noise, half laugh, half sob, and dropped another kiss upon the inside of his wrist. "I'm going to hold you to that, Mr. Webb," she said, and arched one delicate brow. "Maybe if we do it right, we can go together."

This time, it was his turn to chuckle, though he couldn't put much energy into it. "God," he said, "wouldn't that be a shock for the housekeeper."

Reaching out, she stroked that errant lock of hair, now streaked with gray, that she adored. His smile faded, and his eyes searched hers, their murky green color darkening a bit as he studied her.

"I'm sorry," he murmured at last.

"For what?" she asked.

"For screwing up your plans. I know this isn't how you wanted to spend your Memorial Day weekend."

She snorted. "Well, it has put a bit of a damper on things, but I wouldn't say that you've blown things completely out of the water. It's only Friday night. The picnic is still three days away."

He brushed a thumb across her cheek. "There goes my cockeyed optimist," he muttered. "You really think they're going to cut me loose that soon?"

She arched one delicate brow. "Have you read your health plan lately?"

He smirked. "Point taken."

There was a soft muffled sound from the doorway, and she looked up to see a nurse standing there, the CIA security man right on her heels. "We need to prep Mr. Webb for surgery now," the nurse informed them.

Sarah nodded and rose from the chair. Bending over him, she dropped a kiss upon his brow and then paused to nuzzle the hollow of his eye, placing another kiss along the side of the slightly crooked, blade thin nose she loved so well. She inhaled deeply, absorbing his scent.

 "I'll be right outside," she promised.

He didn't answer, but squeezed her hand in reply. His fingers released hers reluctantly, and she knew he wasn't quite as confident as he was trying to appear.

She waited in the hallway as the nurse and orderlies bustled about, adjusting tubes and wires as they transferred him to the wheeled gurney that would carry him down to the operating room, two floors below. A few minutes later, they exited the room in a well-orchestrated parade, with an orderly pushing the gurney and two nurses hanging onto the confusing array of IV's and monitors. She managed to push herself into the crowd, and take hold of the hand that stretched out towards her as they pushed past. The two guards fell into step as well, one in front and one bringing up the rear. It was a tight squeeze into the elevator, and one of the guards had to step out and ride down with Kennedy, but the two men and another team were awaiting them when they got off downstairs.

They came to a stop at a junction in the hallway, where a corridor to the waiting room intersected with a large pair of swinging double doors. Dr. Markham was waiting for them donned from head to toe in fresh surgical scrubs, a pair of soft paper slippers covering his white sneakers. 

"I see we're all ready," he said, and flicked his gaze from Kennedy and the security men to Clay. "I understand you like having your entourage about you, Mr. Webb, but I'm afraid I'm going to have to draw the line at the operating room door."

Kennedy nodded, and then tilted his head at the surrounding security team, his eyes signaling the two men who would remain outside the door. The rest dispersed and moved efficiently to new positions down the various hallways and into the waiting room. The doctor smiled good-naturedly, and nodded to Sarah. "Kiss her goodbye, then."

Clay shot him a suspicious look. "That's some way to instill confidence in your patients."

Markham grinned at Sarah. "I'll have him back out to you in no time, good as new."

She fixed her husband with a bemused glance. "That's what I'm afraid of," she muttered, and then bent to kiss him.

She meant it to be a simple, chaste kiss, like the ones she'd given him earlier, but she was caught off guard by the hand that tangled suddenly in her hair and cupped the back of her head, pulling her closer with surprising strength. His mouth opened under hers and she responded instinctively, only to feel the long, sweet glide of his tongue as it swept along hers and caressed the inside of her mouth. When they parted, she was acutely aware of the blush that had suffused her cheeks, not to mention the crowd of people standing about who were trying –and failing—not to stare at them.

She glared at her husband in exasperation. "I can't _believe_ you just did that!" she hissed. Her face was only inches from his, but she could see the amusement –and desire—burning brightly in his green eyes. 

He shot her his best cocky smile. "Just thought the old ticker might need an extra jolt," he said as his fingers slid back from her hair to caress her cheek. His expression sobered. "I love you."

She felt her throat convulse and swallowed hard, forcing back the misty tears that threatened at the corners of her eyes. She _would not_ cry, damn it. Not in front of all these people.

"I love you too," she said, and then turned and walked away. The tears were already starting down her cheeks, and she refused to let him see.


	2. Chapter 2

**Chapter Two**

20:35 ZULU

SURGERY WAITING AREA  
KRESGE MEDICAL CENTER

PIMMIT HILLS, VA

            They had been in surgery for over an hour. Sarah stared blankly at the video monitor across the room, watching the small scroll of breaking news from ZNN as it filtered across the bottom of the screen. She wasn't really paying attention. Most of her concentration was focused on the soft round of metal that she rolled endlessly through her fingers. She closed her fist tightly around it and savored the small round hardness in the center of her palm. By now, she thought, she surely could have identified it by touch alone, so familiar was she with every nick and scratch and spot worn thin by its passing of years upon his finger.

            They had given her Clay's wedding band --along with his watch and wallet and Harvard ring-- sealed in a plastic bag not long after she had arrived in the Emergency room. She had shoved the bag down into the depths of her purse for safe keeping and had forgotten about it until a short while ago, when she'd rediscovered it during a search for change for the vending machine. The rings had winked at her from the bottom her purse, and she had found herself reaching for them, the search for coins forgotten. She had been fiddling with it ever since.

            Opening her palm, she studied the wedding band, a simple, wide circlet of gold that gleamed dully in the gray fluorescent lights. Like his Harvard ring, she had rarely seen him without it since the day she had put it on his finger –and then, only when he was in the field where being a married man was not a part of his cover. On those occasions, he did not take it with him. He was too afraid of losing it –or worse, having it discovered and being forced to explain it to a suspicious target. Instead, he would take it off and place it, along with the Harvard ring, on a heavy gold chain that he hung around her neck for safe-keeping.

            Somehow over the years, it had become a part of their parting ritual on those times that he would have to leave her. One by one, he would remove the rings and drop them carefully onto the chain, securing the catch about her neck himself before turning her to face him. He would pause for a moment to finger the rings, suspended on the length of chain just above her heart, and then he would lean in to kiss her.

            "Don't hock them," he would tease; his breath a whisper against her lips as they parted. "I'll be coming back for those."

            Then he would be gone. He would disappear into another airport …another crowd …another life, leaving her yet again with nothing to hold onto but his rings and his promise. Incredibly, it had always been enough.

            The impact of the day's events had finally caught up to her and she leaned her head back against the thin cushions of the couch and closed her eyes. God, there were still times when she could hardly believe that this was her life. Of all the possible scenarios one could have presented her with, the reality was one she never would have dreamed of. It seemed so surreal: marriage and a child with Clayton Webb, retiring from JAG and the Marines to open up a private law practice with Bud and Bobbie Latham Turner! –And there were days she still couldn't get over the fact that Gunny had joined the CIA, or that Tiner, of all people, was now serving his second term as a Congressman on the House Armed Services Committee. It certainly wasn't the future she had imagined, all those years ago. But then, she thought dryly, if things had turned out the way she had imagined, she would have been married to Harmon Rabb and…

            _"And what?" she asked herself, suddenly amused at the direction her train of thought had taken. __"You would have closed the deal and had a baby? You would have stayed at JAG forever and nothing would have changed except you'd be a General by now and Harm would be…"_

            "Hey, ninja girl. --You look like you could use one of these."

            She opened her eyes quickly, surprised to find Captain Harmon Rabb Jr. standing there before her as if her thoughts alone had summoned him. Well, all things considered, she shouldn't be that surprised. She straightened up and accepted the cup of coffee that he proffered.

            "Thanks," she said quietly, taking a tentative sip. It was Starbucks, Hazelnut and French Vanilla. She smiled. After all these years, he still remembered.

            She felt the couch cushions shift beside her as he settled his weight upon them, and stole a small glance at him from the corner of her eye. God, he hadn't changed a bit. He was dressed casually, like the last time she'd seen him, in faded blue jeans with his leather jacket thrown on over a soft gray T-shirt. 

            "How's he doing?" Harm's voice, soft and full of concern, brushed over her and she swallowed hard at the warm familiarity of it. If things had been different…

            "He's been better," she admitted, rolling the coffee cup between her hands. "So have I."

            "He's been through worse," Harm reminded her. "You both have."

            She nodded. "You're right about that," and then paused as a new thought occurred to her. "How did you know?"

            Harm shrugged. "The Admiral told me. He got the word from Meredith."

            She smiled faintly. "I miss him."

            "He misses you." Harm replied.

            "How is he?"

            Harm grinned. "A lot more relaxed, now that he doesn't have to ride herd on our sixes every day."

            She flashed a small smile at the comment, and forced herself to meet his penetrating gaze. "I can't believe you're here." She said at last.

            Harm allowed her a rueful grin. "Come on, Mac. You know me better than that. I'll always be here for you when you need me. You know that."

            She shook her head. "It's just been so long…"

            Harm shrugged. "Yeah, well, it's been a long time since you've needed me," he said quietly, casting a pointed look to the heavy gold ring she had hooked over her thumb.

            "It doesn't mean I haven't missed you," she replied. "There were a lot of times when I could have used a friend."

            "And you had them." Harm reminded her. "Bud and Harriet, Sturgis and Bobbie, Tiner, Jen, Gunny --they've always been here for you."

            "They weren't you." She pointed out.

            "No," he sighed, "I guess not."

            She took another sip of the coffee and sighed. "Ten years later and we're still dancing around the same old tune. Tell me Harm, why is it that everything always has to be so impossible with us?"

            He shook his head. "I don't know, Mac. We're just impossible people, I guess."

            She bit back a choked laugh. "Clay would agree with you on that one."

            There was a moment of silence as she felt Harm studying her with the full weight of his gaze, and then he spoke.

            "You've been happy with him."

            She nodded. "Yes, I have."  She tilted her head to look at him. "Is that why you stayed away?"

            Harm seemed to consider this. "Maybe," he said at last, staring down into his coffee cup. "None of it made any sense to me. It was different than with you and Brumby, I could see right away that you and Mic would never work out. But Webb…" he shook his head again, "I just never saw it coming."

            Neither had she, but she wasn't sure she should tell him that. She smiled wryly. "Clay told me once that you were too oblivious. He was right about that. The funny part is, until he said it, I never realized how oblivious _I had been. I'd known him for eight years, and somehow I'd never managed to see the real man until he was beaten half to death and still trying to trade his life for mine."_

            "Yeah," Harm said softly, "Paraguay was a real eye opening experience." He sighed deeply. "I never wanted you to go on that mission. I think part of me knew deep down that I was going to lose you." He smiled sadly, "I just never thought it would be to Webb."

            "Neither did I," Mac admitted, allowing herself to remember that awful time. She could still feel Clay's fingers wrapped tightly around her own as he'd apologized for dragging her into that hellish mess. She could still see the anguish in his eyes when he'd told her that he'd wished he could die for both of them. She could still remember how stunned she had been when he'd told her that he'd wanted her with him, that he'd needed her. 

"It was so strange," she whispered softly, rolling the wedding band between her fingers. "Like someone switched on a light and this person that I'd seen only in shadow for so long was completely revealed. And everything was different…but everything the same…"

            "Paraguay changed things," Harm agreed. "It changed us. –We were different …all of us…even Webb."

            "Yes," she said softly.

            "You know," Harm said slowly, "I had made up my mind when I went down there that when I found you I was finally going to tell you…"

            "Tell me what?"

            His blue gaze drilled into hers for a long moment. "That I was finally ready to let go."

            "Why did you wait?"

            He sighed. "I overheard you and Clay –when we were changing the tire on the jeep—and then I saw you…" he hesitated. "I saw the way he was looking at you, and I knew you were the only thing that was keeping him going." His voice softened. "And I saw the way you looked at him, and …I didn't know what to think."

            "You weren't the only one," Mac murmured. Of the three of them that day, the only one who had been sure of anything was Clay. She had seen it in his eyes. He had been certain he was going to die, as certain of that as he was about his feelings for her. And for a man so filled with secrets, so used to burying his thoughts and emotions so deeply as to rarely be seen, he had been determined not to leave this earth without telling her at least once what she had meant to him.

***

            _"I liked having you for a wife."_

_            "I liked having you as a husband…and a friend."_

_            "There's something about sharing the same bed …the same toothbrush…"_

_            "You used my toothbrush?"_

_            "I didn't think you'd mind."_

_            "You've been single too long. –Maybe we both have."_

_            "You're right. –Sarah, I need you. When we get back…"_

***

            She had kissed him then. She still wasn't sure why. Maybe it had something to do with the ache that was settling in her heart, and the tears threatening to well up in her eyes that she didn't want him to see. Maybe it was the truth she'd read in his own eyes that called for her to comfort him in the only way she knew how. Maybe it was nothing but simple curiosity and a desire to explore a charade that had somehow become so real. Or, it could have been the fact that she'd been afraid of what he might say if she let him finish. She didn't really know. Looking back upon it now, all she knew was that she had kissed him …and everything had changed.

            It had broken her heart, that kiss. It had been so soft, so chaste, and so sweet. It was so unlike the snide, cool exterior that Clayton Webb had presented to the world that she knew it could only come from the real man within. --The man he never allowed anyone to see except for his mother …and now her. It was unlike any other kiss she had ever experienced. There was none of the playfulness she had shared with Mic, or the passion that had once flared between her and Harm on the night of her engagement party. It wasn't even the gentle, tentative kiss of friendship that she and Harm had exchanged beneath the mistletoe one Christmas. It was, in a word, love. It was as if every tender, gentle feeling he had allowed himself had been carefully hoarded for her. It was as if she was all the goodness in his life, the light in his darkness, and he was giving it all back to her. 

            "When did it happen?" Harm asked, his voice quietly interrupting her memories and her thoughts.

            "When did what happen?" she murmured.

            "When did I lose you? Was it before Paraguay? Or after?"

            Mac sighed and shook her head. "I don't know, Harm. I'm not sure I can point to any one moment. All I know is one day I looked up and realized that we weren't the same people we'd been before. Too many things had happened. Too much time had passed. The opportunity for whatever we might have had was gone. We couldn't get it back."

            Reaching out, she took his hand and gave it a squeeze. "But you never really lost me, Harm. You know that. –Just like I never really lost you. You're here with me now, aren't you?"

            He flashed her that old patented Harmon Rabb grin and took her coffee from her, setting it down on the table in front of them. "Yeah, ninja girl, I'm here with you," he sighed wrapping an arm about her and pulling her into his shoulder.

            She buried her face in the well worn leather, inhaling its warm, familiar scent. "I'm glad," she said softly. "I'm not sure I can do this alone."

            "You don't have to," he murmured, pressing his chin into the top of her head. "Webb's a fighter. He'll make it through this. He's gone through a lot worse to get back to you."

            "I love him," Mac said, hating the smallness of her voice.

            She felt the curve of Harm's lips as he smiled into her hair. "I know." His voice sounded amused, and a little sad. "God knows I don't understand it …but I know."

            Mac chuckled softly. "It's love, Harm. What's to understand?"

            She felt him shrug beneath her. "I don't know it's just…Webb, of all people!"

            She pulled away and tilted her head to study him more carefully. "Is that what it is? Is that what's been eating at you all these years? Why Webb and not you?"

            There was a moment of silence, and when he finally spoke, she almost laughed at the boyish petulance in his voice. "Well, maybe a little," he allowed.

            She sobered a bit. "Do you really want to know?"

            "Yeah," he said softly. "I think so. We've danced around it long enough. It's long past time we put it to rest." He stroked a lock of her hair back from her cheek, tucking it behind her ear. "I think we both need to hear the answer to this. Why couldn't we have made it work? Why Clay? Why not me?"

            "Honestly?"

            Harm shrugged. "It's usually the best policy."

            She was silent a long moment and then at last, she answered him. "Because he trusted me."

            Harm scowled. "I trusted you!"

            She shook her head. "No, Harm. Not completely. Not really." He started to protest and she took his hand, squeezing it tight enough to silence him. "Don't get me wrong. I know that you trusted me more than any other living person. There were things you shared with me that you'd never have told another soul, but it was never…complete. There was always a part of you that held back, that couldn't let go."

            He groaned, "We're back to that again, are we?"

            Mac nodded. "Yes, of course we are. Don't you see? That's what it's always been about."

            Harm snorted in disgust. "All I can see is you talking circles around the issue again."

            She tamped down the familiar flare of exasperation and fixed him with a patient look. "It's simple enough, Harm. You just never wanted to admit it –to me or to yourself. It wasn't love that you were afraid of, it was trust. And you can't have a relationship unless you have both."

            She drew a deep breath. "All those years, I had to fight tooth and nail to get you to let me in. And you did, bit by bit, but never willingly. You admired me. You respected me. I think you even loved me. –But you never trusted me, Harm. You never trusted my instincts. You never trusted me to take care of myself. You never trusted me to make my own choices, --to be myself. I think when I finally started to realize that, I understood that we could never really work out."

            "And just when did that little revelation come over you?"

            She thought about it for a moment. "Afghanistan," she said at last.

            "With Webb."

            She nodded. "That day in the prison camp, when that prisoner jumped me? –I was terrified. I could feel the knife pressed into my throat and I knew he was going to kill me before Gunny could even get off a shot. …And then I saw Clay. He was looking at me. He never took his eyes off of me the whole time. He was telling everyone to put down their weapons, and at first I couldn't figure out what he was doing, but he kept looking at me and I realized he was counting on me. He trusted me to take care of myself, to take the guy out, and I had to trust him and Gunny to take out the rest of them without hitting me. It was a powerful feeling, knowing that someone had placed that much faith in me –and that I had to place that much faith in them. It made me realize that that was what was missing between us. It's what started me thinking."

            "So Webb nearly gets you killed and makes you save yourself and you suddenly decide he's the one?" Harm said sarcastically.

            She rolled her eyes. "There was more to it than that."

            "Do tell," he murmured.

            "Part of it was Paraguay," she said at last.

            "I knew it. He put the moves on you, didn't he?" 

            She smiled at the note of resignation in his voice. "Actually, he was a perfect gentleman."

            She thought about it for a moment. "He was scared, Harm. I'd never seen him scared before."

            "He had good reason," Harm said quietly. "A mole in the Agency and the South American Bureau leaking like a sieve, three agents killed in seven months, and going in after Sadiq Faad and Raul Garcia with only Gunny for back up. He had to be crazy going into something like that…let alone taking you with him."

            "He wasn't crazy, Harm. He was desperate. Kershaw didn't leave him a lot of choice. That mission was his only ticket home."

            "That still doesn't excuse him for dragging you into it." Harm grumbled.

            "He said that very thing to me, about a million times." She smiled, "the funny thing is, I was never really angry with him for that. –For not telling me about Gunny, or the leaks, yes. But not for bringing me into it."

            She rolled the ring off her thumb and clenched it tightly in her palm. "He needed me, Harm. He trusted me. He trusted my judgment when he couldn't be sure of his own. He trusted me with his life, and Gunny's …and mine."

            She drew a ragged breath as she willed back old tears. "No one had ever placed that kind of trust in me before…that much faith. It was frightening …and wonderful."

            "And you loved him for it." Harm said quietly.

            Mac nodded.

            Harm let out a heavy sigh and pulled her back to his shoulder once more. "Well, what ever he did, he's made you happy." He smiled down at her. "It looks good on you. –Even though I thought I'd never again see the day you traded in your Marine green for civvies."

            "Yeah, well, that one wasn't entirely my choice." She rested her head back into his shoulder once more. "Being passed over twice for promotion is a pretty good indication that you've stayed too long at the party."

            "The promotion board must have been made up of idiots." Harm murmured.

            She snorted. "Get real, Harm. No matter how good a lawyer I was, there was no way a promotion board was going to see a record like mine as "General" material. --A recovering alcoholic?          One who'd been court-martialed for murder and who was only acquitted because it came out that she'd had an affair with a former commanding officer? It's a miracle they let me stay in the Corps –let alone make Colonel."

            "What did you do?"

            She shrugged. "What was there to do? I finished out my twenty and I retired."

            Harm raised a disbelieving eyebrow, knowing that could not be all of it.

            "And I went home…" she finished lamely, "…and cried …and yelled a lot …mostly at Clay."

            Harm grinned. "What did he say?"

            She shook her head. "Nothing. –Except for one night, when he'd finally had enough. He arranged a sitter for Penny, bundled me up in the car, took me to the best restaurant in town, and treated me to a hideously expensive meal. Then he told me that I was the most intelligent, exciting and beautiful woman he'd ever known and he couldn't stand seeing me like this any more, and what was I going to do about it?"

            "Did you karate chop him?"

            She snorted. "I thought about it. But I was too busy dissolving into a sobbing mess. I didn't know what I was going to do. I felt like I didn't know who I was any more."

            "And?"

            Mac sighed. "And he told me that I was his wife and the woman he loved. And he reminded me that even if I wasn't a Marine anymore, I was still a lawyer, and a damned good one."

            "And that was when you decided to go back into private practice?"

            She shook her head. "—Not exactly. I applied to a few firms, but I wasn't really interested in any of them. And then Bobbie and I were talking one day and she happened to mention how she was thinking of retiring from Congress and how she was considering starting up a law firm that specialized in advocacy for abused women and single mothers. The next thing I knew, we were talking about renting office space and hiring paralegals." She chuckled. "I was half afraid to tell Clay. I was afraid he'd have a fit."

            "Did he?"

            "I could tell he wasn't thrilled with our choice of office location. We wanted to be accessible to the women we were trying to help, so it wasn't in the greatest part of town. But he never said a word."

            "I find that hard to believe." Harm snorted.

            She smiled. "He just said, 'Sarah, I don't make your decisions for you, and I won't tell you what you should or shouldn't do, but I will tell you this: you have to find something that you love as much as you loved the Corps. You'll never be happy with anything less.'"

            "He was right about that," Harm murmured.

            "Yes," she mused. "He was."

            "He's been good for you," Harm decided, and there was a note of acceptance in his voice that she had never heard before. "Better, I think, than I would have been."

            She shot him a surprised look. "I can't believe you just said that."

            He laughed. "Me either, but it's true. Even if I had worked up the nerve to tell you sooner, we never would have worked out, would we?"

            "No," she said at last. "I don't think we would have. –I just wish it wouldn't have taken us this long to figure that out."

            "So do I."

            "We wasted so much time," she said sadly.

            He sighed. "My fault," he said. "I couldn't handle it. It just hurt so damned much. It was different than when you were with Brumby. Clay was my friend. I couldn't hate him, even though I wanted to. I couldn't hate you, either. I loved you and I wanted you to be happy and you were …just not with me."

            "Can you handle it now?"

            He smiled. "I think so."

            "Good," she said, and stifled a yawn. "I could use a shoulder to lean on right about now."

            He looked down at her. "I think you've already got it, Marine."

            "For how long?"

            "As long as you need it."

            She allowed her eyes to drift closed. "I take it that means you'll be in town for a while?"  
            "A while."

            "Then I'll see you Memorial Day?"

            "I wouldn't miss it."


	3. Chapter 3

**Chapter Three**

SURGICARE WAITING AREA

KRESGE MEDICAL CENTER

21:20 ZULU

            When she awoke, it was to a gentle hand upon her shoulder. She straightened from her uncomfortable position, slumped against the arm of the couch and blinked her eyes until her vision cleared. There was no sign of Harm, or empty coffee cups. Victor Galindez stood in his place, looking dark and serious in his black suit and blue silk tie. She shook her head and rubbed at her neck. She still couldn't quite get used to the sight of him in anything other than a Marine uniform. Never mind the fact that he had joined the agency seventeen years ago, when his last hitch with the Marine Corps was up and Clay had offered him a permanent job with the Agency.

            He had told her once that it was the opportunity to work with Clay, as much as the change of pace and the better pay that had prompted him to jump the fence. He had liked working with Webb. They had made a good team in both Afghanistan and South America, and he'd liked having a partner again. Plus, he'd sensed in Clay's offer an opportunity for advancement that the Marine Corps was never going to give him. He'd taken the job and never looked back.

            It had been a good decision for both of them, she realized. Clay and Victor complimented each other well. Clay's polished upbringing and Victor's barrio background allowed them to move in circles high and low and the combination of their diverse experience had saved their lives more than once. And there was an ease between them that they rarely demonstrated with other people. Both were quiet men, and though Clay's manner tended to be sharp and Victor's polite and unassuming, they understood each other perfectly and took no offense at the other's idiosyncrasies. Sarah had little doubt that it was Clay's influence as much as Victor's own experience and skill that had secured Galindez's latest appointment as Director of Operations to Southeast Asia. By the same token, she knew that she had Victor to thank for the fact that her husband had come home to her from every one of those dangerous, secretive missions they had gone on together. Each time she'd find a new scar…a cut…a bullet wound…she'd look him in the eye and ask him just how close he'd come to dying this time. 

Invariably, he'd shrug and smile and say … "It got a little hairy for a second, but it was ok …Gunny had my back."

He was still doing it, she thought, noting that Kennedy had disappeared and the CIA security had slipped more quietly into the background. She rotated her neck slowly, and then looked up into Victor's worried face. "Is there any news?"

He nodded. "They just took him to the recovery room. You should be able to see him in about a half hour or so."

She rubbed her hands across her face and stared at him more clearly. "I thought you were in Israel."

"What? And miss one of your famous cookouts? No way. I wrapped things up early and caught a plane out this morning." His shy grin faded. "I was halfway over the Atlantic when I got the word. How are you and Penny holding up?"

"Oh, we're muddling through. I sent her home with Sturgis and Bobbie. She went kicking and screaming, of course, but at least she went."

He turned and reached down to the table behind him for a cup of coffee. "Here," he said, handing it to her. "You look like you could use it."

It wasn't Starbucks Hazelnut and French Vanilla Crème, but it was light with two sugars, the way she'd always drank it at the office. Victor hadn't forgotten either.

"Thanks, Gunny." She said, accepting it with a grateful smile.

"Any time, ma'am," he replied, slipping back into their old personas with an ease that belied the passing of years.

They sat in companionable silence as she sipped at the coffee and allowed her mind to wander over the odd, triangular bond she and Clay had formed with this man over the years. They had made a good team, the three of them. So much so that Harm had once referred to them, not entirely jokingly, as the three musketeers. At first she had seen it as merely one of his fits of petty jealousy. But now, looking back, she realized it was merely his own admission of the fact that others were eclipsing his place in her life. God knew there was not another man alive outside of Clay that she trusted as much as she did Victor Galindez. She'd had to. He'd held both her life --and Clay's-- in his own hands too many times for her to count. And aside from Clay and Harm, she couldn't remember another person for whom she'd been willing to risk herself as she had Gunny. He was a friend …a comrade …a Marine. And they never left their own behind.

But in the end, she knew it all came back to trust. Clay and Harm had been friends, but deep down, Harm had always suspected Clay's motives. The oddities of life had thrown Clay and Victor together in a situation where trust had come first and friendship later. It was that, she realized, that had kept them alive all these years. She had trusted each of them, and they had trusted her and each other. Together, it had made them invincible. She smiled at the simple, plain spoken man beside her. He still wasn't Harm, and he would never be Clay, but he was her friend and he would be there for her –for both of them. On nights like tonight, it was more than enough.

A nurse in surgical scrubs appeared in the doorway. "Mrs. Webb? You can see him now if you like."

Victor rose and offered her a hand up. She accepted it, and was grateful for his silent presence as he followed her and the nurse down the maze of corridors to the recovery room. She had no trouble determining which one was his. The same guard was posted outside.

He was groggy, but he was awake. She heard his mumbled reply as he answered the nurse's questions and saw his clumsy movements as he struggled for full clarity. She smiled. Clay hated being unaware and out of control of his faculties. It made him a lousy patient. She had no doubt he'd be giving the nurses hell within the hour.

The nurse stepped back to allow her access, and she moved quickly to his side.

"Hey," she said softly, taking his hand.

His eyes softened as they focused upon her. "Hey," he murmured back.

From the other side of the bed, Galindez's hand came down upon his shoulder, and he rotated his head in the other direction to stare blearily up into the other man's face. He frowned, momentarily confused.

"Victor, what are you doing here?"

Galindez grinned. "I came for the party. I think it's gonna be a dud, though. Word is you haven't bought any steaks and you're out of beer."

"My apologies," Clay murmured.

"No sweat, Boss," Victor said. "I'll take care of the groceries. You just worry about getting back on your feet."

They sat with him for perhaps another fifteen minutes before Doctor Markham came in and gave them the report. "He came through just fine. We were able to clear all the blockages. He should be well enough to send home in a couple of days. I think we'll wait a couple weeks and let him rebuild his strength a bit before we go in to take care of the valve."

She felt Clay give her fingers a gentle squeeze. "You weren't kidding about the health plan," he muttered. 

She shot him a quelling look and turned her attention back to the doctor. "How much longer will he be down here?"

Markham considered this. "Another hour or so, just to make sure everything is all right. Then they'll take him back to his room. Would you like me to have them bring in a cot for you?"

"Yes." She replied.

"No." Clay said.

She looked down at him in surprise. He was studying her intently, his olive colored eyes darkening with concern. "You're dead on your feet," he said softly. "Go home. Get some sleep. I'll be fine."

"I am not leaving you, Clay," she said firmly.

"Yes," he said with surprising conviction in his voice. "You are." He rolled his head to look at Galindez. "Take her home, Victor. That's an order."

"I still outrank you, Gunny." Mac growled.

"And I outrank both of you," Clay retorted. 

Mac sighed. Obviously the anesthesia was wearing off. 

Galindez sighed. "Talk about being between a rock and a hard place."

            Sarah squeezed his hand harder. "I won't leave you," she said again.

            He sighed and traced his thumb over her knuckles. "And I won't sleep a wink if I'm worrying about you …and right now, I'm worrying about you. Go home, sweetheart. Get some sleep. Come back in the morning. I'll be all right. I swear."

            She shook her head. "I'd rather be here. Penny's with Sturgis and Bobby, and I hate the thought of going back to that house alone."

            "Then don't," he said quietly. "Victor can stay in the guest room. Besides, he looks too tired to drive back to Georgetown tonight." Clay frowned as more pertinent facts started to float back into his mind. "Where did he come from, anyway?"

            "Israel." Mac replied.

            "It's settled then." Clay said tiredly. "He's staying over."

            She hesitated, not quite sure how to argue her way around this one. He saw it and flashed a small smirk as he zeroed in for the kill. "Besides, I have an ulterior motive."

            "What?"

            "If you go home, you can stop at the club in the morning and pick up my car and my gym bag. God only knows what's become of my gear by now."

            She shot him an exasperated look. "Just for that I _will_ go home."

            He fixed her with that cocky, knowing smile. "Bye," he said lightly.

            She scowled at him. "God, you can be such a jerk!" She couldn't believe it. Even at death's door he still had the ability to infuriate her. She rose to leave, but he caught at her hand pulling her back to him.

            "Have I ever told you you're angry when you're beautiful?" he murmured.

            "Yes," she said shortly, collecting her handbag. "--Every time you make me that way."

            He ran his fingers across her knuckles and frowned at the unfamiliar adornment upon them. He looked down to see his wedding band, hanging loosely about her middle finger. He brushed his thumb across it, looking thoughtful and her temper cooled as he opened her clenched hand and kissed her palm.

            "Don't lose that," he warned her, "I'll want it back when I get out of here."

            She bent down and kissed him softly on the lips. "I love you, you idiot," she sniffed.

            "I know," he murmured lazily as sleep started to overtake him once again. "I love you too, sweetheart. Go home. Get some rest. I'll see you in the morning."

            By the time they had reached the door, he was already asleep.


	4. Chapter 4

**Chapter Four**

03:33 ZULU

CARDIAC CARE UNIT

KRESGE MEDICAL CENTER

PIMMIT HILLS, VA

When he first saw her there, standing quietly at the foot of his bed, he was afraid he must have broken his promise to Sarah. Somehow, he thought, he must have passed in his sleep without realizing it. It was the only explanation he could think of for why she would have come to him now. Still, years of working in the intelligence business had taught him the value of cautious investigation over quick assumptions, and so he had to ask.

"Am I dead?"

She cocked her head as she considered this, her bright blue eyes studying him with all the intensity of a Robin sizing up a worm. It made him decidedly uncomfortable.

"No," she said at last.

"I'm dreaming," he decided, and wondered why he still didn't feel relieved.

This time, she allowed him a small smile, the one that barely pulled at the corner of her mouth. --The one that revealed nothing of her thoughts. He remembered it well. He'd always thought it one of her more enigmatic expressions.

"In a manner of speaking," she said simply.

"Why you?" He asked softly, feeling the cold tingle of unease slip through him. "Why now?"

"We have a standing appointment," she said practically, rounding the bed to draw closer to his side. "I thought that since you couldn't come to me, I would come to you."

"I didn't forget," he reminded her carefully, his voice taking on a suspicious note. "Not once in eighteen years, not even when I was abroad."

"No," she agreed. "You are a man of your word."

"Then why come to me now? There were plenty of times I couldn't get back here. --I never dreamed of you then." In truth, he'd never dreamed of her at all, not even when she'd been alive. –Not even…after. The only woman who'd starred in his dreams in those days was Sarah. Come to think of it, she still had top billing.

She tilted her head at him again, her bright blue gaze impenetrable as ever. He thought she must have been the only person he had ever known who was as good at hiding her thoughts as he was. "Because it's time," she said at last.

"Time for what?" He asked suspiciously, the trickle of uneasiness growing stronger now.

"It's time for us to talk," she said holding out her hand to him in that cool, prim manner.

Slowly, he took her hand. It didn't feel icy, as he had somehow expected. Instead, it was small and firm with surprising warmth. He allowed her to pull him to his feet, amazed at how easy it was. Well, it was his dream, he thought. He could walk if he wanted to. Still, he couldn't quite believe it, that she was here, that they were having this conversation.

"You want to talk?" He said, studying her curiously. "Now? –Why?"

She raised one eyebrow, as if surprised he didn't already know the answer to that question. "Because it's been eighteen years, Clayton," she said at last, "and you've been wondering." 

She led him to the door, pausing only as they reached the threshold. "I've wondered myself," she said, looking up at him inquisitively. "Where were you going to take me that day?"

"You mean if you'd actually shown up?"

She nodded.

He thought about it for a minute, dredging up the half forgotten details from his memory. "The Sea Cliffe," he said, "a little hotel just outside Galway, on the road overlooking the bay."

She studied him for a moment, her blue eyes serious and her dark gold hair swept neatly back from her face and he realized he had forgotten how pretty she had been …and how alone.

"Take me there," she said simply.

"All right," he said. He supposed he owed her that much, at least. Offering her his arm, he stepped across the threshold into the crisp damp chill of an Irish winter night.

They walked quietly along the cobblestone street that wound its way out of town along the bay before climbing the narrow and ancient two lane road that scaled its way up towards the Burren, the Irish Badlands. In the distance they could hear the tolling clang of the buoys and the soft whisper of the waves as they washed upon the shore. Now and then the gentle beam from the light house would streak out across the bay, illuminating the darkened humps of the Arran Islands and breaking through the heavy fog.

They did not look at each other, but he was aware of her hand, clad in soft black kid leather, resting lightly in the crook of his arm and he could feel the heavy wool of her long winter coat swishing against his legs. The flying tresses of her long gold hair blew against his cheek as they walked.

The warm golden lights of the Sea Cliffe beckoned to them, and they climbed the short flight of stone steps to enter the lobby. The lobby, pub and registration desk were all enclosed in one long room that spanned the width of the building. A large marble hearth and ornately carved cherry mantle occupied one end, in which a peat fire burned brightly. A variety of cozy low tables and chairs were scattered about, and he ushered her to one nearest the fire before helping her to remove her coat.

Seated before the fire, he carefully lifted his glass of single malt and took a meditative sip. He studied her carefully schooled expression in the firelight, but he could read nothing from it. For some strange reason, that satisfied him.

"So," he said, setting down his glass, "what was it you were going to tell me that day?"  
            "You already know." She said easily.

He smirked at her. "Would it have been the truth?"

She flashed a small smile back at him. "I think you already know that, too" she replied, and took a sip of her tea. "It's what would have come next, that you don't know."

"Neither do you," he returned.

"So tell me," she said, setting down her cup and folding her hands beneath the table. "What would you have said?"

He forced his gaze to meet hers. "I would have wanted to know if you intended to keep it," he said quietly.

"I wondered about that myself," she admitted. "I don't know that I ever really arrived at an answer."

"Would you have given it up for adoption?" he asked.

"I intended to," she said, so quickly that he knew she meant it. "At first I wasn't even going to have it."  
            He smiled grimly. "What changed your mind?"

She shrugged. "Second thoughts, I guess. I don't really know."

"I thought you knew everything."

She stared at him for a moment, her gaze completely unreadable. "Not everything, Clayton." She said at last. "Besides, isn't everyone entitled to second thoughts?"

"Not in my line of work," he said brusquely. "They'll only drive you crazy."

She fixed him with a wide, feline smile. "So that explains what happened to you."

He laughed harshly. He'd always liked her vicious sense of humor. "Maybe it does," he agreed.

He took another sip of the whiskey, not really tasting it and set the glass back down, lightly shaking it to rattle the melting ice. "I would have offered to take it."

"I would have let you," she replied, "…for a price."

He fixed her with a hard, business-like stare. "Name it."

She seemed to consider this for a moment. "A hundred thousand dollars," she said at last, "and your personal recommendation and support for any particular job postings that I might apply for."

He raised an eyebrow, impressed by her acumen. "Done," he said simply.

She raised a hand and he smiled. He should have known there would be more. "And visitation rights."

He drained the glass and set it back down. "That part would require further negotiation," he decided. "But I'm sure that you and my overpriced lawyers could have reached some sort of agreement. I wouldn't have kept you away. A child should know both its parents."

She nodded thoughtfully, "It does answer a lot of annoying questions in the long run…" she agreed. She rolled the china tea cup between her hands. 

"And what if I had decided to keep it?" she asked, softly.

He stared at her steadily until she finally met his eyes. Only then did he speak.

"I would have seen to it that financial provisions were made. –And I would have wanted visitation rights."

"And if I refused?"

"I would have fought you, Lauren. –And I would have won."

"My, my," she murmured, narrowing her gaze upon him. "Strong words for a man who said he never wanted children."

He shrugged. "Things change."

"Second thoughts?" She asked coyly.

He smiled grimly. "In a manner of speaking."

The silence weighed heavily between them for a moment. Finally, he worked up the nerve to ask:

"Is that why you were thinking of not having it? Because I said I didn't want children?"

She flashed him a tight little smile, and he thought that perhaps it might have been a bit sad. "You weren't the only one, Clayton. I didn't want them, either." She took another sip of her tea, careful, prim and proper. "There just didn't seem to be much point in bringing another child into the world that no one wanted…"

This time, there was sadness in her voice and he studied her sharply, realizing that he'd somehow just been given a key to unlocking the ruthless façade she had presented to the world.

"Just like no one wanted you?"

He saw the flash of pain in her eyes, and knew that he had struck the truth. He was sorry for that, but somehow, it needed to be said.

To her credit, she squared her shoulders, raised her chin and met his gaze unflinchingly. "You should know, Clayton," she said quietly. "You're a perfect example. You offered me a job, you offered me money …an opportunity for advancement, and one night –when we were both a little too tired and drunk and far too lonely—you even offered me your bed." She shrugged. "It's as much as I've ever gotten from any man."

"And if I had offered you a ring?"

She managed to smile at him, but it was brittle. "Neither one of us is very good at pity," she said.

"I suppose not," he agreed.

Time flowed seamlessly into dinner and he stared at her now from across the small table set for two in a quiet bay of one of the Sea Cliffe's tall French windows.  She was picking daintily at her beef, cutting it into small pieces before spearing a slice with her fork and eating it. She made a face.

"This is terrible."

He smiled at her. "This is Ireland. What did you expect? People don't come here for the food."

She raised a disapproving brow. "This is your dream," she reminded him. "Does your imagination always taste this bad?"

He chuckled approvingly.  She'd always given as good as she got. "Try the fish," he suggested.

She looked at him for half a beat, then looked down at her plate and speared her fork into the salmon and tried a bite. She gave a small shrug. "Better," she pronounced.

Rain tapped gently against the wavy panes of hand blown glass, and he tilted his head slightly to look out the windows. The soft glow of the street lights running down the alley were ringed with halos, but they cast a dark wet shine on the chiseled stone walls and the cobblestone walkways that bordered ornate and orderly rose garden. The golden flame of the candles burned brightly on the table between them. The flickering light reflected softly in the darkened window panes and he saw that their own images were mirrored in the black, flawed surface of the glass. 

He was forty again. His hair was as dark as it had been in his youth, but the hard lines of disappointment and disillusion had cut their way into his face. The laugh lines that now crinkled at the corners of his eyes and mouth were barely existent, and he remembered that he'd had little cause to smile in those days. He was thinner, he noted. His suit, always well cut, seemed to hang a bit loosely on him. There were shadows beneath his eyes, and he vaguely recalled that brief period of his exile when perhaps a few too many of his meals had come out of a bottle. It might not have been the lowest point of his life, he thought, but it had been damned close.

He stared down into his coffee cup, the inky liquid as black as his thoughts.

"I'm glad," he said finally, "—that you decided to have it."

She gave a barely perceptible nod of acknowledgement. "I was too, I think."

"You both deserved better than that," he said, his words as bitter as the coffee upon his tongue. "You didn't deserve to die that way."

She took a small sip of her wine. "Speaking of which, how is Teddy?"

He leaned back in his chair. "Still writing his appeals from prison, last I heard. Not that it really matters now. He'll be out in two years."

"What, no parole?" she said dryly, "I thought he had connections."

"Not anymore. Not for a long time. He was up for review six years ago, but Chegwidden scuttled it."

She stared at him in surprise. "The Admiral?" She flashed a malicious little grin. "And all this time I thought he didn't like me."

Clay smirked. "He didn't. But he hated Lindsey more. It never did pay to cross AJ."

"Did he ever find out I was the one that leaked Teddy the information for his report?"

"Yes."

Her blue eyes sparkled whimsically. "Perhaps I got off easy, then."

It was so odd, so unexpected, that he actually laughed and he suddenly remembered another one of the reasons why he'd actually admired Lauren Singer. Whether it was with her hands, her mind, or her sense of humor, she never failed to go straight for the jugular.

He took another sip of the coffee and its bitter taste brought him back to the purpose of their conversation. "I don't know if I would go that far," he told her.  
            "No?"

He shook his. "No," he said firmly. "You should have had another chance at life. She should have had a chance to live." He met her eyes squarely. "I wish things had been different."

"Do you?" She challenged. Her eyes dropped to his left hand, now bereft of a ring. "Do you really?"

He felt a chill course through him as he understood her meaning. He must have given some small part of himself away, for the blue eyes sparked with black humor. "Relax, Clayton. This isn't some bad rehash of 'It's a Wonderful Life.' You're not Jimmy Stewart, and I'm certainly no angel."

"Just what exactly are you, Lauren?" he whispered.

"Your reality check." She shot him a speculative look. "Have you ever really considered what would have happened if I hadn't died?"

His hazel eyes flickered with annoyance. "I'm not a fool, Lauren. I know it wouldn't have been easy."

"No," she agreed, "it wouldn't have. We were two miserable people, Clayton, caught in a miserable situation. It was hardly the recipe for a happy ending."

"True, but we were both reasonable adults. We had no illusions about the situation –or each other. I'd like to think we could have come to some sort of amenable agreement."

"We probably could have," she said. "We might even have been able to give her a relatively normal, well balanced childhood. It doesn't guarantee it would have been happy."

"There are no guarantees on happiness," he told her.

"No," she said slyly, "there aren't, are there?" 

She looked again at his unadorned hand. "Do you think she still would have married you?"

His expression went so flat, so still so quickly that anyone who knew him well could tell how deeply the barb had struck. Apparently, she knew him well enough, for she cocked her head slightly, her blue gaze assessing him.

"Apparently not," she mused.

He hesitated a moment longer. "I don't know," he finally admitted. Hell, if the truth be told, he still wasn't entirely certain as to why Sarah had agreed to marry him in the first place. –And that had been without the encumbering baggage of another woman's child. A woman, if he recalled correctly, that she didn't particularly like. "I couldn't have blamed her if she hadn't."

She nodded her head approvingly and took a small sip of her wine. "Now you are starting to understand. Life is all about the forks in the road. You can only take one or the other. You can't travel both."

"The road not taken…" He let the quote trail off, but she finished it sardonically.

"--Is for fools and romantics. Life has only one road. All the others are irrelevant."

"Are you saying you were irrelevant?"

She raised her blue eyes to his. "Aren't I? It's been eighteen years, Clayton. No one even remembers, except for you." She shook her head, completely mystified. "Why do you keep coming back? It shouldn't matter anymore."

The old stab of guilt came surging back, prompting him to reach across the table and grab her hand. He took her fingers tightly in his own. "It does matter," he said firmly. "It always did."

He sighed heavily. "I'd always said I never wanted children or a family because of what happened to my father. I never wanted to leave a wife and kid high and dry like that. I always figured I'd die alone in some backwater hell-hole, and I was ok with that –or at least I thought I was. –Then I came back to Washington, and I heard what had happened. You'd been gone for three months and no one had missed you. There were barely a dozen people at your funeral, all of them from JAG. It was a lousy way to leave the world, Lauren, and I knew that it was probably going to be the same for me some day. I didn't like the idea very much." He smiled grimly at her. "I guess you were my reality check then, too."

"Is that why you come year after year?" she asked coolly, "Because you feel sorry for me? …Because you feel guilty?"

He nodded slowly. "It was at first," he admitted, meeting her eyes unapologetically. "Everyone should have someone to remember them. I always felt I owed you at least that much."  
            "I don't want your sympathy," she snapped.

He scowled at her. "You never had it," he retorted. "You and I know damned well that you are as much to blame for what happened as Lindsey was. If you hadn't been trying to blackmail him, he might have actually called for help when you fell instead of tossing you into the river."

She blinked at his harsh words and he saw in her expression that they were once more on equal footing. "What you had," he said patiently, "was my respect. You've always had that."

He drew a deep breath. "Lauren, when I told you that you should come and work for the Company all those years ago, I meant it as a serious job offer. You were smart, analytical and pragmatic. You could make the hard decisions and get the job done without letting emotions get in the way of the overall goals and objectives. Why in the hell you stayed with the Navy is beyond me. You shouldn't have been so damned stubborn. You'd have gone a lot farther in the CIA." 

"Analytical? –Pragmatic?" She raised an eyebrow at him. "I'm flattered. Most people would have described me as a cold heartless bitch."

He smirked. "You were. But that's not always such a bad thing."

"We digress," she said, twirling the cut crystal stem of the wineglass between her fingers. "You said 'at first,'" she reminded him, "is there another reason you maintain these little pilgrimages?"

He was silent a long moment. "You were right," he said finally, "—when you said I've been wondering. The last few years, I have wondered …about her …about how things might have been …what she would have been like." He smiled wistfully. "We got an invitation in the mail the other day for Jimmy Roberts's graduation party and I realized if she'd lived, she'd have graduated high school herself this year. I couldn't let myself think about it. I was standing there in the kitchen arguing with Sarah about which parties and benefits we were going to go to that weekend and who was going to take Penny to her horse show and I didn't dare let myself dwell on it then. That's why I keep coming back," he explained, "it's the only time I allow myself to think about those things."

She stared at him for what seemed like an eternity, her sharp blue gaze studying him as if she were trying to come to some penultimate decision.

"Would it help if you met her?" she asked at last.

He felt as if the breath had been sucked out of his lungs. "You can do that?" he asked. His voice sounded hoarse, even to his own ears.

She nodded. "I think it can be arranged. Would you like to meet her?"

            He somehow managed a sharp, vigorous nod. His throat had suddenly tightened to the point that he was no longer capable of speech and he was aware of the racing of his own heart. God, he hoped this was still a dream. It would be a damned inconvenient time for another heart attack.

            He followed her as she rose from the table and in the hazy, indistinct manner of all dreamscapes they left the hotel without ever taking a step. Wordlessly, she took his hand and led him down to the shoreline and onto the wide, rocky beach where the girl waited for them. It was daylight now, and the warm summer sun sparkled brightly on the water, blinding him slightly so that he found it hard to focus on the slim, willowy figure.

            There was something familiar about her, he thought. The mussed dark curls, the tilt of her head …he knew her, he realized, and yet she didn't quite look as he had expected. Lauren called to her then, and she turned and waved and ran to them, her face lighting up with her grandmother's brilliant smile.

"Daddy!" she exclaimed joyfully, and threw herself into his arms.

He held her close to him, his heart clutching tightly in his chest with painful recognition. He _did know her. He had known her all her life. This was the infant he'd held in the hospital when she was only minutes old. This was the bubbling toddler who'd greeted him at the breakfast table every morning with sticky kisses. This was the little girl who had taken her first waltz steps on the toes of his polished black wingtips. The one who had perched proudly on the back of the tame old pony he'd led out for her as if it were an Olympic jumper. This was the bright, busy, forgetful teenager who'd forgotten the name of the Swedish Ambassador. This was his daughter. This was Penny._

Pressing his chin tightly into her dark curls, he raised his eyes to look at Lauren. "How can this be?" he asked.

She had thrust her hands into her pockets of her long black coat. The damp ocean wind picked up slightly, stirring the long loose locks of her tarnished gold hair, and there was an air of serenity about her that made her look like some dark goddess newly-risen from the sea. She tilted her head to study them both. "There is only one road," she reminded him. "Traveling it is all about the choices …but sometimes, all the choices are the same."

He still did not understand, and she must have seen it, for she took a step closer to them and reached out to stroke Penny's hair. "A soul can't be lost if it was never born. She was always meant to be your child, Clayton …just not necessarily mine."

"Thank you," he said quietly.

Penny had somehow disappeared between them, and they were standing alone now with her hand upon his breast where Penny's head had been. She tilted her head up to look at him, and he thought he saw a touch of melancholy in her eyes.

"You don't have to come any more …if you don't want to. It's all right to let go."

"Do you want me to stop?"

She shrugged. "What I wanted ceased to matter eighteen years ago."

He smiled at her. "I've always thought it a nice little tradition. If it's all the same to you, I think I'll keep it."

"It is nice to be remembered," she admitted softly. 

He took hold of her hand, still resting over his heart and gave it a gentle squeeze. "I'll always remember, Lauren." He assured her. "I do try to keep my promises."

"Yes," she murmured. Her expression was unreadable. "You do."

Suddenly, she rose upon her tiptoes and swiftly kissed his cheek. "Thank you for that," she said.

He smiled down at her. "I'll see you later, then" he promised. 

The ocean whispered softly, the buoys clanged in the distance and he spared a glance out to the sea. When he looked back, she was gone.

He awoke suddenly, with a sharp, indrawn breath. It took him a full moment to realize where and when he was, and when he did, he was overcome by the immense sense of relief. His throat felt unusually tight and it was hard to breath. For a moment, he wondered if he was having another attack, and then he realized what it must be. Slowly, he brought a not quite steady hand to his face and felt the warm dampness that was running down his cheek. He let out a shuddering breath. God, he was actually crying.

He let his hand drop back to his side and drew several deep breaths, letting the tears run unchecked. He knew it was just a dream but he could still feel her touch, the press of her hand upon his heart. It was not the weight, but the absence of it, he realized. The burden of the old familiar guilt was gone. It was as if she had released him somehow, --or maybe, he had finally released himself. He closed his eyes. Whatever it was, there was a sense of peace there that he had not felt in a very long time. If only the other burdens of his heart could be as easily lifted.

His fatigue had caught up to him again, and he felt his body relaxing of its own accord. But as he slowly drifted off into sleep, he could not help but remember her words and the strange thought occurred to him that perhaps Penny hadn't gotten her stubborn streak from Sarah after all.


	5. Chapter 5

**Chapter Five**

WEBB RESIDENCE  
ALEXANDRIA, VA

29 MAY, 2021

07:15 ZULU

            Sarah rolled to her side and waited until the softly glowing blue numbers of the clock radio changed. She sat up and swung her feet to the floor. She'd had enough. It was pointless to lie there any longer. In fact, she'd have gotten up when she'd woken, thirty-five minutes ago, had it not been for fear of disturbing Victor. 

She sighed as she reached for her robe and padded across the bedroom to the large master bath. Part of her dearly wanted to wring Clay's neck. She'd have slept better at the hospital. The hospital cot might have been small and uncomfortable, but at least it wouldn't have been their bed –too cold and empty without his familiar warmth to fill it. At least there when she had awoken, she could have looked over to see him and been reassured by the beeping of the monitors and the familiar sounds of his snoring. She wouldn't have suffered restless dreams about Paraguay, and Syria …and men in dark suits coming to her door.

It was chilly for May, and she drew the robe more tightly about her as she padded down the long hallway towards the kitchen. Coffee first, she decided, then shower and clothes. After that, she'd call the hospital and see how he was doing. Maybe by then Victor would be ready to leave and they could go get Clay's car, which was still probably at the club. Fortunately, the Athletic club had its own secure parking garage, so she shouldn't have to worry about whether or not the thing was still there. Clay would raise hell if something happened to his Mercedes.

The aroma of freshly brewed coffee hit her like a wall as she entered the kitchen, and she looked up in surprise to see Victor, seated at the butcher-block island with a steaming mug as he read the morning copy of the Post. Tigger, a large orange tabby cat, was stretched out lazily on the financial section. His white tipped tail flicked gently across the page Victor was reading. 

She glanced out the kitchen window on her way to the coffee maker, and saw the bounding figure of Jack, their golden retriever, investigating a rabbit hole in the yard. Victor must have let him out. God, he'd been quiet. She hadn't heard a thing.

"I thought you'd still be sleeping," she confessed as she took a mug from the cabinet and poured herself a cup. "How long have you been up?"

Galindez glanced up from the paper. His eyes flicked briefly to the clock on the microwave. "Half an hour or so," he shrugged slightly, "When you bounce around between time zones as much as I do, you learn to acclimate pretty fast." He paused to drink from his mug. "Did you get any sleep?"

"No," she said shortly as she raided the refrigerator for her box of vanilla cream. "I'd have felt better if I'd stayed with him."

Victor's brown eyes followed her with concern. "He's going to be all right," he reminded her.

She shrugged. "I know. I'll just feel better when he's home." She paused to test her coffee, frowned, and added another splash of cream. "When will we be ready to leave?"

"Whenever you want to go."

"I want to go now," she grumbled, "but we still have to get Clay's car, and I'm sure you'll have to be reporting in."

He consulted the clock above the stove. "I'll call Langley," he said. "They can probably spare me for an hour or so. Is that time enough?"

She nodded and he slipped off the stool and walked over to the phone to make the call. She focused on drinking a good measure of her coffee and reached out absently to stroke Tigger. The big cat bestirred himself enough to rise up off of the morning paper and rub himself affectionately against her. She stared at him blankly. It was out of character for the cat. He usually preferred Clay's company to hers, even though Clay adamantly insisted he was not a cat person and was forever complaining about the cat hair on his suits. She might have believed him if it weren't for the mornings she'd risen early enough to hear his voice coming softly from the kitchen and found him grumbling to the cat about some snippet he'd read in the morning paper while the animal nibbled contentedly at one of Clay's sausages. Lord knew it certainly wasn't _her fault the cat weighed 22 pounds._

The orange tabby blinked at her expectantly. His pale yellow eyes were complacent, and nearly as arrogant as the man he favored. 

"What?" she muttered, staring at him over the rim of her coffee cup. "I suppose you want food."

Tigger blinked again and began to purr. Sarah shot a glance to the cat food dish. It was nearly full of the low calorie, special diet dry cat food. "Sorry," she murmured, reaching out rub the animal under the chin. "No sausages for you this morning." 

She drained the rest of her cup and stumbled back to the coffee pot for a second cup. "Come to think of it, maybe no more sausages for him, either," she muttered. She'd just been on to him last week about his diet. He tended to eat too much fast food and take out when things got hectic, and between work, training with Rachel and getting Penny back and forth between music and riding lessons, the last few weeks had been busier than usual. She considered having a word with Kennedy and his secretary about seeing to it that his lunch orders got changed from Polish hot dogs to soups and salads from here on out. 

She added more cream to her coffee, then wandered back to the island and scooped up the cat, carrying him with her out onto the back deck. Jack barreled past her as she opened the door, storming into the kitchen in search of his dog food and Tigger arched his back and hissed. She bit back a soft curse as the cat's back claws bit through the heavy fabric of her robe. She closed the back door quickly behind her before depositing the animal unceremoniously at her feet. Tigger yowled his displeasure and then took a seat at her heels, clearly out of sorts with the world in general and her in particular. 

She breathed deeply of the crisp morning air, letting it clear her head a bit as she absorbed the chirping of the birds and the distant sounds of the Washington traffic. It really was a lovely day, she decided as she studied their expansive back yard, complete with a formal garden, swimming pool and a small pool house.  It was too bad they were probably going to be spending most of it at the hospital.

She stared for a moment at the swimming pool, trying to recall if this was the day the pool man came. –Not that it really mattered, they'd get the bill in the mail whether anyone was home to greet him or not. She drank more of her coffee and shook her head. She hadn't been particularly enthusiastic about the pool, but she could tell that it had been a major selling point with Clay when they bought the house. --That, and the spacious three acres of walled and gated grounds that the house sat upon. She'd lived in apartments and barracks for most of her life. She didn't know what to _do_ with a lawn and a garden, she'd told him. Neither had he, he'd told her, brushing aside her protests. That was what pool and lawn services were for.

But for all that the estate like grounds had intimidated her; she had fallen in love with the house. It wasn't one of the run-of-the-mill Federalist knock-offs that filled so many of the upper-echelon neighborhoods of Arlington and Alexandria.  It was simple, eclectic and almost utilitarian with its plain, hard lines, but it managed to blend well with the lush landscape and the tall oak trees that surrounded it. It was straightforward and well proportioned with no frills. –And yet, it held a stroke of audacity with the bold, polychrome colors of its smooth concrete walls, the bright tile roof, the copper gutters and brass fixtures. She'd thought that she and Clay would never find a house that they could agree upon, with his old money sensibilities and her trailer park upbringing, but this house had fit the bill. Clay had been crazy about the classic 1930's art-deco style, and she had felt comforted by the polished hardwood floors and the warm wood paneling that reminded her a little of Uncle Matt's cabin in Arizona. Moreover, she liked the way she felt as she stood in this house. It maintained a sense of elegance and power as one moved from room to room, and it bolstered her somewhat. She'd always felt a little like Katherine Hepburn or Myrna Loy or some other classic film diva when she donned an evening gown and presided over the occasional dinner parties that they hosted. In this place, in this house, she was the mistress of her domain and she had no trouble holding her own with the richest bitches on the Washington cocktail circuit. 

Clay had liked the house because it had been an excellent real-estate investment. The fact that it was only five minutes from Capitol Hill made its location relatively convenient as he spent more and more time in Senate Budget hearings and White House briefings. And if they ever decided to move, he knew he'd have no trouble unloading it on some Congressman or Senator for a princely sum. Its classic architectural pedigree had appealed to him as well, having been designed and built by the renowned John Joseph Early in 1935. Personally, Sarah had never heard of the man, but whoever he was, the name alone had caused Clay to be suitably impressed. 

The place had been in need of renovation, and they'd picked it up for a song at what she still considered to be a staggering sum of just under $800,000. Clay had been enthusiastic about restoring it. She'd had reservations about that as well, but somehow their relationship had survived the roofing, the re-wiring, the repainting, and even the remodeling of the kitchen and the bathrooms and now both their home and their marriage sat on a solid foundation.

She hoped.

She sighed as she pulled her robe more tightly about herself and sat down on the top step of the back deck beside the cat. Tigger wandered into her lap, and she stroked the animal distractedly as she took another sip of her coffee. Something had been weighing on her husband's mind as of late, and as per usual, she had no idea what it was.

Most of the time, she chalked it up to something at work and let it go, knowing that he would never be able to talk to her about it anyway. Her security clearance had been retired with her uniforms. Still, she hadn't spent twenty years in the Marine Corps and fifteen married to a spook without being able to put two and two together. Usually, all she had to do was turn on ZNN or read the International section of the Washington Post to get at least a vague idea of what it was that was causing her husband's strange moods and sleepless nights. But she sensed that this was different.

When it was something at work, she barely saw him. He left early and stayed late and when he did come home, he spent most of the time in his study with his eyes glued to his laptop as he focused on his latest head ache. When it was bad, he was irritable, arrogant, snide and downright rude, but he was always sufficiently apologetic and contrite later. She had a safe full of good jewelry and a passport full of cruises and exotic vacations to prove it. But when the tension was getting to him, there was no doubt that he could be an insufferable bastard. 

Usually, she put up with it for about three days, and then she'd give him hell. They'd pick some petty, inconsequential thing to argue about and then they'd go at it hammer and tongs. About the time she would be ready to haul off and hit him, they'd be standing there nose to nose, yelling at each other. –And then suddenly they'd be lips to lips with all thoughts of shouting completely gone from their minds. If they were lucky, they might actually make it back to the bedroom in time.

As often as not, they didn't. She smiled as she thought of the butcher-block island in the kitchen. It hadn't been part of the original plans for the kitchen remodeling. They'd had to put it in after one of their more spectacular disagreements. The antique trestle table that had preceded it had not survived the strain. She doubted she would ever forget Clay, panicked and disheveled, as he rushed to haul out the wreckage out to the garage before the housekeeper arrived. They'd both picked splinters out of their rumps for a week. The only saving grace was that Penny had been away at summer camp. They'd have been hard pressed to explain that one on such short notice.

Inevitably, their little go rounds would serve to diffuse some of the tension that was plaguing him, and while he couldn't tell her much of what was on his mind, he often would tell her a great deal of what was in his heart. He would share his feelings with her, his insecurities and his worries that this time he might not be good enough to get the job done. She grounded him in those moments, lending her strength and support and love, and no matter how bad the things he could not tell her might get, she somehow managed to pull him through with his soul and his humanity intact. Even at his worst, she found it easy to forgive him. As much of an arrogant, annoying pain in the ass that he might be, he clung to her in those times, and that was what made it all worthwhile.

If he'd been working late, if he'd been grouchy and sarcastic or even whiny, she'd just have chalked it up to business as usual. But it wasn't that way at all. Indeed, he'd been home earlier these last few weeks. A quieter world political situation and a lighter workload had left him with an unprecedented amount of free time. So much so, that he was actually using some of it to help Rachel train for the Olympic tryouts in between going to horse shows with Penny and attending social functions with Sarah. She'd actually gotten used to having him home on weekends. –Which was why she had started to notice his unusual behavior.

He had been quieter lately. There had been none of his usual sarcasm or the sniping banter and sharp humor that she loved to hone her wits upon. In fact, he'd been polite, deferential and actually rather sweet. –Too sweet for the smart-assed intellectual that she'd married.

She hadn't missed the looks, either. More and more in the past few weeks, she would catch him looking at her or Penny, his hazel eyes shuttered and his expression completely unreadable. It made her wonder what was going on in that wonderful, conniving, intensely secretive head of his, and it bothered her that for the first time in a long time, she didn't really know. At any rate, it was enough to spark the sneaking suspicion that whatever was going on with him had nothing to do with work.

She couldn't quite put her finger on what it was exactly, except to say that he was somehow out of character. He put on a good show, and almost no one had noticed –not even Penny—but it seemed to Sarah that he wasn't quite himself. The dissonance would strike him at odd moments, too. Last weekend had been a perfect example.

They'd been trying to reconcile their calendars with their social engagements, and failing miserably. In the midst of a spirited debate as to whether they should attend her charity benefit for a local women's shelter, or his reception at the Dutch embassy, he'd dropped the stack of invitations and the card for Jimmy Roberts's graduation had fallen out onto the counter. Sarah had barely managed to suppress a groan. She had completely forgotten, though Bud had reminded her at least three times that week alone.

"I suppose we could manage to stop in for at least a few minutes," she had sighed.

Clay had looked at her strangely, and then stared back down at the card a moment longer, an odd –almost stricken—expression upon his face. When he finally spoke, his voice had been uncharacteristically hard, and she had been surprised by his answer.

"No," he said firmly. "We'll go to this. The hell with everything else."

She must have stared at him as if he'd suddenly grown a second head, because he'd shifted uneasily.

"What?" he'd demanded, his tone was defensive.

"Nothing," she murmured. "I'm just surprised you suggested it."

He shrugged. "This is important. Bud and Harriet are our friends. –Not like the rest of those Washington sycophants."

She'd raised a suspicious eyebrow. "Now that's certainly not the explanation I would have expected from you. My God, Clay, are you going soft on me?"

"Not at all," he replied. "I simply saw it as the best compromise. I give up the reception, you give up the benefit, and we go to the Roberts' instead. It gets us out of two boring social functions and makes me look good with my wife."

"You always look good to me," she had told him lightly as she kissed him on the lips. But he hadn't responded with quite his usual enthusiasm, and she got the niggling feeling that there was something else he wasn't saying.

_That_ had bothered her more than she cared to admit, for it violated one of the tenets of their relationship. With his career being what it was, it had been understood that there would always be secrets between them.  Over the years, however, they had managed to compensate for it by sharing nearly everything else. Whether it was a bed, a toothbrush, a checkbook, or their innermost thoughts, there was almost nothing of a personal nature that they withheld from each other. But she sensed that he was keeping something from her now, and she didn't like it one bit.

Tigger kneaded his claws into her thigh, and she gently lifted his paws and squeezed them, toying with the sharp needles of his claws.  The cat purred contentedly and regarded her with knowing, yellow eyes.

"He probably told _you what's bothering him, didn't he?" she accused, glaring at the cat. Tigger's purr rumbled louder. She took it as an affirmative._

Just the other night, she had awoken to an empty bed and had stumbled down the hallway in search of him. She had found him seated in front of the gas fireplace with a glass of sherry in one hand, while the other absently stroked the cat firmly ensconced in his lap.

"I thought you weren't a cat person," she had teased.

"I'm not," he'd returned, but he and the animal had traded such a look of intimate understanding that she was almost jealous.

Nor had he shoved Tigger off his lap to make room for her, as he usually did on nights when sleep evaded him. She couldn't help but feel a little hurt by the lapse, and her unease had grown when she'd ruffled his hair and kissed his cheek and gotten no more of a response than a small smile and the gentle squeeze of his hand upon her arm as she'd gone back to bed. She could feel him pulling away from her, drawing in upon himself, and she hated it. In sixteen years of marriage, he'd never done that before, and frankly, it was starting to worry her.

More and more often over the past few weeks, she had felt the silence growing between them. She had no idea how to breach it, nor did she really know its cause. As difficult as it was to admit, there were times when he seemed almost a stranger to her. In spite of all the fear and worry, last night had been the first glimpse she'd seen in a while of the old Clay, the man she that she knew and loved. She understood now that that had been the real reason she hadn't wanted to leave the hospital. For a few brief hours she'd had her sharp, passionate, smart-aleck of a husband back and she'd realized how much she'd missed him. She was afraid to let him go for fear that when she returned he'd once more be replaced by the withdrawn, troubled imposter that had haunted her bed these last few weeks.

Lord only knew what she'd find when she went back this morning. She wasn't entirely certain if he'd talk to her or not. Yesterday's events had scared the hell out of him, and it was likely that that, combined with the variety of drugs they'd given him, had loosed some of his inhibitions. By now he would have had time to recover, time to reconstruct his carefully guarded defenses.

It crossed her mind that perhaps this all might be tied to his heart attack somehow. She knew enough about it to know that these things did not just happen out of the blue. The medical journals and newsletters were always printing all sorts of information about how to spot the early warning signs. Maybe he had been experiencing them for a while now. Maybe he had just been afraid to tell her, for fear of worrying her and Penny. She scowled into her coffee cup. Even that wasn't like him. He'd never kept any worries about his health from her before. What in the hell was happening to them?

She finished the coffee and pushed the cat off her lap. No matter, she decided as she got to her feet. She would just come right out and ask him as soon as the opportunity presented itself and her chances of that were fairly good. For once, she had him as a captive audience. They might as well talk. There wasn't going to be a heck of a lot else he could do for a while.

She heard the soft snick of the door closing behind her and turned to see Victor, now dressed in a light, pinstriped shirt and dark slacks. A red silk tie was draped carelessly around his neck and his stocking feet were shoved into polished black loafers. 

"Kennedy will be here in forty-five to drop off Penny. Is that enough time for you to get ready?"

She nodded, and he gave her an odd, questioning look as he began to knot his tie. "You look like you're about ready to launch the entire 1st Marine Division on somebody's six," he commented. "Is something wrong?"

"I'm starting to wonder," she said slowly. She reached out automatically, and straightened the knot. It was an ingrained, wifely habit that she could not quite suppress. She smoothed the tie for him and let her hand drop back to her side, her dark brown gaze locking with his. "I've gotten the feeling lately that there's something he's not telling me."

Galindez allowed his mouth to pull back in a lopsided smile. "Oh, there are lots of things he's not telling you," he agreed. "You know that."

She scowled at him, "That's not what I mean," she said irritably. "If it was just work, I'd know it. This is something else."

He looked at her for a long moment, sweeping her with what she could only describe as his "cop" stare. It was the one he'd always used when interviewing witnesses and evaluating their statements. There was nothing cold, or unkind about it, but it was firm, assessing and the kind of gaze that seemed to gauge everything you were saying –and all of the things that you weren't.  His eyes were serious now, his voice quiet as he spoke.

"Are you two having problems?" he asked gently.

God, she couldn't believe she was actually having this conversation with Victor Galindez, of all people. On the other hand, she really couldn't imagine talking to anybody else about it. Harriet would have fifty suggestions for how to fix the situation, and Bobbie …well, she and Bobbie had always been more comfortable talking shop than sharing personal woes. What's more, Victor knew Clay –probably better than anyone, aside from herself.

She sighed heavily. "I'm not sure." She lifted one shoulder in a slight gesture. "He just seems so distant lately, and I can't seem to reach him. He's keeping me at arm's length, Victor, and I don't know why."

She stared hard at Galindez, her dark eyes filled with worry. "What is it he's not telling me?"

Galindez dropped his chin and contemplated the polished toes of his black loafers for a moment. Damn. He hadn't imagined it. He had thought he sensed a certain tension between them the last time he and Paulina had dined with them, just before he'd left for Israel. He'd tried to brush it off as too much work and not enough play, but even then, he'd known better.

She was right, he thought. Something was up with Webb. He'd known the man for nearly twenty years –had been partnered with him for nine of them—and he'd come to recognize the shifting subtleties of that complex personality as well as anyone. Even if he did know what it might be, he couldn't tell her. It wasn't his place.

Victor Galindez clenched his jaw, not liking what his intuition was telling him, yet sensing the truth of it just the same. They had been through hell together, he and Webb. Air strikes, riots, torture and terrorist attacks –it didn't seem to matter—nothing ever seemed to phase the impenetrable armor that Webb girded himself with. Nothing ever seemed to crack that iron clad self control. –Except one thing. Fear. And as far as Victor Galindez knew, there was only one thing Clayton Webb was truly scared of: losing Sarah. 

He could feel the muscle in his cheek beginning to twitch and tried to force his features to relax into a bland expression, lest he betray to her some glimpse of the thoughts racing through his head. If Webb was scared, then he must have reason. He must have done something, Galindez realized, something terrible. –Something that he feared would turn her from him.

_"Damn you, Clay," Victor_ thought viciously, "_what have you done to hurt her now? What is it you're hiding from her? Another woman?"_

Even as the thought occurred to him, he recoiled from it. As far as he could tell, Clay hadn't so much as looked at another woman. The only one he'd ever had eyes for was Sarah. Besides, Clayton Webb was one of the smartest men he'd ever met. He just couldn't see him being that stupid. You didn't run around chasing tail when you had a woman like Sarah Mackenzie waiting for you at home. Still, Victor thought uneasily, there must be something, or else it wouldn't be coming between them now.

He could feel the weight of her gaze pressing down upon him, and he knew that she was expecting some kind of response. He didn't know what to say to her. He couldn't tell her what he really thought, what he suspected. Perhaps she would settle for what he knew to be true.

In a gesture that mirrored the man who had been his mentor, he thrust his hands into his pants pockets and gazed out over the low masonry wall of the back terrace to stare into the turquoise depths of the pool. "Permission to speak freely?" he asked at last, feeling as uncertain of her now as he had back in the days when she'd been a Colonel and he a Gunnery Sergeant.

"Please do," she said firmly.

He pulled his hands from his pockets and leaned upon the wall, bracing his elbows upon the smooth terracotta tiles inset into the wide ledge. Clasping his hands, he studied the rippling waters intently, as if the right words would somehow swim up from their crystalline depths.

"Sarah, I can't tell you what's going on with him. Most of the time, I don't know any more than you do. He's spent more than half his life dealing in secrets, compartmentalizing his feelings from his actions. Sometimes I wonder if _he even knows what's going on inside of him. But I do know one thing. It may be the only thing I really do know about him, and I know it like I know the sun will rise in the East and set in the West." He paused and tilted his head to look her squarely in the eye. "I know that he loves you."_

He heard her soft intake of breath and wondered if perhaps she'd doubted it lately. He smiled faintly, wondering how it was that two people who were so in love with each other could somehow lose site of something that was so obvious to everyone else. Unless…

"Do you still love him?" he asked quietly, his smile fading. Maybe that was what it was. Clay was nothing if not a perceptive son of a bitch.

"Yes," she replied in an exhalation that sounded too much like a sob and he was relieved. 

"Good." He said firmly, pinning her with his gaze. "You want my advice? --Don't stop. Get angry with him if you have to. –Hell, half the time he has it coming. But whatever you do, don't stop loving him, and don't stop showing him that you do. He'll come around sooner or later."  
            "Are you sure about that?"  
            He nodded firmly. "I am. He needs you, Sarah. He always has. …He always will."  
            Stepping up to him, she brushed a quick kiss across his cheek. "Thank you, Victor."


	6. Chapter 6

**Chapter Six: **

CARDIAC CARE UNIT

KRESGE MEDICAL CENTER

08:45 ZULU

            "Good morning, Dad!"

            Clay started at the unexpected greeting and nearly spilled the plastic container of concentrated orange juice over the morning edition of the Washington Post that he had been engrossed in. As he folded the paper and set it aside, he decided that it was a good thing he was through with field work. If Penny could sneak up on him so easily, he'd never stand a chance against a trained enemy operative. He tilted his head and peered over the tops of the reading glasses he'd borrowed from Marks, the tall, thin, fifty-something agent who was currently standing guard outside his door. Penny was sailing into the room at the head of a veritable parade. Through the glass walls he could make out Sarah, Kennedy and Victor Galindez following closely upon her heels.

            "Good morning, beautiful," he rejoined. He put out his arms and Penny carefully cut her way through the barrage of tubes, wires and monitors to step into his embrace. He squeezed her tightly, kissing the top of her head. Then he turned to Sarah, who had made her way to the other side of his bed.

            "Good morning, gorgeous," he said softly. The words were low and deep in the back of his throat as he raised his mouth to hers and kissed her soundly.

            "Mmm… Good morning, yourself," Sarah returned, dropping a second brief kiss upon his lips before straightening away. "I see somebody is feeling better."

            "If you don't mind, I think I'll forgo the lip service," Galindez said as he approached the foot of the bed. "But you do look better than you did last night."

            Clay shot him a dirty look. "Shouldn't you be debriefing at Langley or something?"

            Galindez smiled and shrugged. "I should be, but in your drug induced haze last night you gave me higher orders." He reached into his pocket and dug out a black leather key ring with a gold Mercedes emblem on it. "You'd think after seventeen years in the agency you could find something better for me to do than be your glorified chauffer and valet service. –Nice wheels, though. That buggy corners like its on rails. Did you know it can go from zero to sixty in—"

            Clay shot Mac a horrified look. "Christ! You didn't actually let him drive it!"

            She smiled at him sweetly. "Only in the parking ramp."

            Clay glared at both of them. "Don't tease me," he warned. "You know I've got a weak heart."

            There was a soft tap on the glass and Victor turned to see Kennedy beckoning to him. "I've gotta go," he said, nodding to the men outside. "I already rescheduled one meeting. The DDO won't be happy if I'm late for another." He shot a quick look at Mac. "Anything else you need, you let me know," he instructed. As he turned to leave, he reached out and lightly ruffled Penny's hair. "Good to see you kiddo," he said and shot her an affectionate grin. "You keep your old man in line now, you hear?"

            "Sure, Uncle Vic," Penny promised.

            Galindez waved a hand in response and then strode out of the room and down the hallway after Kennedy and one of the other agents.

            "I'm glad he made it back," Sarah said as she dropped down into the chair beside Clay's bed. "It just wouldn't be the same without him."

            "No," Clay agreed absently, removing the borrowed glasses and setting them down upon the paper. He settled back against his pillows and looked expectantly from Penny to Sarah. "So, what nefarious plans have my two best girls arranged for the day?"

            "Actually, Dad, we're spending the day with you." Penny said, carefully making place for herself on the foot of his bed.

            Clay looked from his daughter to his wife, clearly disconcerted by this announcement. "You know what they say about too much of a good thing," he warned.

            "I'm sure you can handle it," she replied lightly, "and it won't be quite the whole day. I thought Penny and I would take your car and go out for lunch. There are a couple errands I need to run, and we can do them this afternoon while they're running you through your tests. We should be back in time for dinner."

            "Not a wise dining selection," Clay scowled at his breakfast tray. "Take it from the voice of experience."

            They passed an hour in amiable conversation. Something, Clay reflected, that they didn't seem to do nearly enough of as a family. Somehow, they were always too busy. Either Penny had a horse show, or he was out of the country or Sarah had a court case to prepare for. –There was always something, always some sort of project or engagement that required their attention, and so little time for them. –Too little time, he thought. And yet, when he did have the time to spend with Sarah, he didn't know what to do with it. He realized that itt was getting harder to look her in the eye …to talk to her without betraying himself. 

He was thoroughly disgusted with himself for letting it come to this. He had spent his entire adult life dealing in secrets and lies. He knew better than anyone the burden that they placed upon a man's soul. He knew the way they had of stacking up, one on top of another, until it was impossible to escape them. The lies were the worst. Each one led to another, and another until it was almost impossible to remember exactly what the truth of the matter was. 

--Not that he had ever lied to her. He had sworn to her, years ago, that he never would. He had kept that promise at least, empty though it was, --for though he had never lied to Sarah, he had never told her the truth, either. There was a point, he knew, somewhere along the line that he should have. He should have said to hell with the rules and thrown caution to the wind and told her how it really was, but he hadn't. He'd been too afraid. And with each year that passed, that fear had only grown: the fear that someday that truth would come to light and it would destroy them.

He had taken this sin, like so many others, and tried to bury it deep and forget about it. It had worked for a while, but with the passing of years, the old guilt had somehow managed to claw its way to the surface of his thoughts. If he were to be perfectly honest with himself, he'd have to admit that he'd never really escaped it. If he had, then he wouldn't be spending those sleepless nights sitting up in his chair with only the damned cat for company. He wouldn't have spent all these years sending flowers to a meaningless grave in Arlington. He wouldn't be still waiting for the other shoe to drop. He wouldn't be wondering when she was going to leave him.

He was suddenly aware of Sarah's eyes, fixed hard upon him.

"What?"

"I asked you if you wanted Penny to bring you something to read from the gift shop. I'm sending her down to the cafeteria to get us a snack."

"Oh," he said absently and turned to his daughter. "Sure, sweetheart. Go ahead and pick something out. You know what I like."

"Right," Penny said, reciting her list aloud, "two Pepsi's, two pieces of Chocolate Truffle Cheesecake and a Crypto-quote Puzzle book. Got it." 

"Obviously she's inherited your appetite," he said teasingly as Penny left the room.

She didn't answer him right away, and he suddenly felt the intensity of the silence between them.

"Where did you just go, Clay?" She asked quietly. "You certainly weren't here with Penny and me."

He couldn't answer her, and she expelled an angry breath. "What is going on with you? –And don't tell me it's nothing. Something has been eating at you for weeks. What is it?"

More silence. She shook her head in frustration. "Is it your health? Is it something you were afraid to tell me? Is it work?" She drew a shuddering breath, and turned her face away. "…Is it me?" she asked softly, the words sounding strangled in her throat.

It was the last question that broke through the wall of his reserve. He grabbed for her hand, taking her fingers so desperately in his own that she could feel the metal of her wedding band biting into her flesh. "No!" he said quickly, his voice almost panicked. "God Sarah, its nothing like that."

"Then what is it?" She demanded, her eyes glistening with unshed tears. "Why won't you talk to me?"

"I can't," he ground out.

"Because it's classified?" she asked softly.

The word was already forming on his tongue. It would be so easy, he thought, to give her the answer, knowing she would let it go. But he had never lied to her. Could he do it now? Betray her in the only way that had ever really mattered?

"Yes," he whispered, and felt another piece of his soul slip away.

She looked at him strangely for a moment. "All right," she said at last, and brushed the backs of her fingers against his cheek.

She turned away from him, and moved to the window. She stared for a moment at the multi-tiered flat rooftops of the complex that surrounded them, and the distant shape of the Washington skyline. "There's something I've been meaning to tell you," she said, and he could tell by her carefully casual tone that he was not going to like it. "Now is probably a good time, before Penny gets back."

He felt the dread that had started to ease begin to well up inside him again. "What is it?" 

His mind raced with all the usual possibilities: _I know the truth… I can't live with the secrets any longer… I'm leaving you… I want a divorce… I don't love you any more… _

            "I've taken a case," she said at last, "--one that you're not going to like."

            "For who?" He didn't really need to ask. In truth, he already knew, but considering the stakes, it was necessary to maintain the charade. _One lie leads to another…_

            "Sergei Zhukov."

            "I see."

            "We've filed for disclosure."

            His stomach clenched. "Are you sure that's wise?"

            She flashed him an irritated glance. "Hasn't he waited long enough for an answer? –Haven't we all?"

            "Some questions are better left without answers, Sarah," he said quietly. "I think we both know that."

            "Do we?" she returned. "Ask yourself this, Clay --Who does it really protect?      –Certainly not the dead, they're beyond the need of it. –Not their families, they're the ones who will never heal until they know. –And they're not asking for the moon, Clay. They just want to know a little bit: How they died, when they died …if they're really dead. Is that really too much to ask?"

            "Sometimes it is."

            She rounded on him. "I can't believe you actually said that. –You, of all people. You were willing to sell your whole career down the river for the Angel Shark families for God's sake!" She drew a deep breath, calming herself. "You told me once that one of the reasons you joined the agency was because you knew it was the only chance you'd ever have of finding out what happened to your father –and you had to make DCI before you found out the whole truth of it!"

            "And when I did find out, I almost wished I hadn't," he reminded her. "I grieved for him all over again, Sarah, and it was worse, because I finally understood exactly how pointless his death had been. It was almost better when I didn't know, when I thought he had died for something that mattered."

            "Almost," she chastised, turning the word against him. She searched his face as if looking for something she could not find. "Why do I have the feeling you know more about this than you've let on?"

            He offered her a thin smile. "Could it be your overly suspicious nature?"

            She shook her head, her expression serious. "I don't think so," she said finally, and hesitated. "Can you honestly tell me that the Company had nothing to do with this?"

            It was a fine line he was treading. Still, he somehow managed to meet her gaze as he replied. "If it was an Agency mission, it wasn't sanctioned."

            "That doesn't tell me anything."

            "I know."

            She looked at him for a long moment. "He needs the truth, Clay. –So do I."

            She wasn't just talking about the case anymore. They both knew it.

            "I know," he said again and this time, he could not meet her eyes. 

CIA HEADQUARTERS

LANGLEY, VIRGINIA

11:51 ZULU

            "I think that about covers it for now, guys." Victor Galindez said, dismissing the small group of analysts who had crowded around the conference table in the narrow room adjoining his office. "We'll save the rest of it for later. Have a good weekend."

            "What's left of it," someone muttered underneath their breath, and Galindez smiled as he gathered together his papers and carried them into his own office. If they thought they had reason to bitch now, he couldn't wait until he sent them on their overseas stint. –Preferably during the Christmas holiday.

            Moving to his desk, he glanced down and was surprised to see his coffee mug, filled to the brim, waiting for him in the middle of his desk. He brushed it with the backs of his knuckles. It was hot. Setting down the papers, he picked up the mug and took a tentative sip. Not only was it hot, it was good. –Made just the way he liked it. He set the mug back down.

            "Ronnie?" he called tentatively, his voice carrying into the outer office.

            A moment later, Ronnie Fong, his slim, dark haired receptionist poked her head in the door. Her delicate Eurasian features were schooled into a polite but bland expression as she presented herself.

            "Welcome back, boss."

            Victor looked at her in surprise. "It's Saturday," he said. "What are you doing here?"

            "I'm your assistant," she replied. "My hours are your hours, remember?" She waited only half a heart beat before adding "Obviously you didn't, --or you would have taken pity on me and requested a temp while you were in Israel. Do you have any idea how hard it is to explain to my boyfriend why I'm unavailable for over three weeks because I have to work from midnight 'til eight in the morning?"

            "So what did you tell him?" Victor wondered.

            She shrugged, "I said I was picking up an extra part time job for a phone sex hotline and told him I needed help practicing. Eventually, he quit asking questions."

            Victor grinned. "I knew that business telephone class I sent you to would pay off sooner or later."

            She nodded towards a neat stack of papers on his desk. "I've laid out your messages, and a few documents that need your attention. Nothing urgent though, I forwarded the most important stuff to you in Israel."

            "Thanks," he said. "I'll take a quick look at it before I go. –Anything that needs to be signed right away? My Tuesday's going to be pretty well tied up with the rest of the briefing on the Middle-East treaty."

            "One or two things," she said. "They're right on top."

            He nodded and sat down at his desk. Pulling the stack from his inbox, he started in. The first one was a monthly budget report. He scanned it quickly, found nothing out of line and scrawled his signature across it before dropping it into his out box. The second was a routine request for information from the State Department. He signed that as well. The third one brought him screeching to a mental halt.

            It was a memorandum from Catherine Gale, regarding a legal action for public disclosure filed with the Judge Advocate General against Naval Intelligence. Since Naval Intelligence had been little more than bit players in this particular instance, they had wasted no time in forwarding a copy to Gale's office at the Agency. Catherine, with her usual efficiency, had looked up the particulars of the case and now a copy had ended up on his desk.

            He scanned the document with a sinking feeling growing in the pit of his stomach. The pleading was filed on the behalf of one Sergei Zhukov by the firm of  ­_--Oh Christ-- …Mackenzie, Latham and Roberts. He read the entire document through once. He read it again. He set it down carefully and regarded it as if it were a bomb about to explode. In many ways, he thought, that's exactly what it was._

            Raising his head, he called through the door.

            "Ronnie? Could you come in here for a moment?"

            She appeared momentarily, regarding him over the tops of her fire-engine red glasses. "You yelled?" she said dryly, casting a meaningful look at the intercom on his desk.  
            He held up the document before him. "When did this memo from Catherine Gale come in?"

            She glanced at it. "The day after you left. I was going to forward it to you, but I noticed that it had also been copied to Director Webb's office. I called Mandy and asked if this was something we needed to get to you right away, but she said that there was no need. Director Webb was handling it personally." She looked concerned. "Should I have sent it on?"

            He shook his head. "No," he said at last, you did all right. "It's just something regarding an old case of mine. I just wish I'd known about it a little sooner."

            Ronnie still regarded him uncertainly. "It's ok, Ronnie," he said reassuringly. "Look, why don't you call it a week and head on home?"

            "You're sure?"  
            He nodded and rose from his desk, throwing the Gale memo back into his in-box. "My hours are your hours, remember? –And I'm calling it a day."   

KRESGE MEDICAL CENTER  
PIMMIT HILLS, VIRGINA

12:25 ZULU

"Nice digs, you're coming up in the world."

Clay pushed back the unappetizing tray of tepid soup and orange gelatin and regarded the visitor who stood in the doorway of his private hospital suite. "What are you doing back here?" he demanded irritably. "You should still be at Langley debriefing on Israel."

Galindez shrugged. "Been there. Done that. We covered the important stuff. The rest of it can wait until Tuesday."

"Nice to see you take national security so seriously," Clay snipped. He wadded up his napkin and tossed it onto the dinner tray.

Galindez merely smiled. "I live to serve," he said easily.

Clay shot him a measuring glance. That suit he had on looked at least one wearing past due for the dry cleaners. "Have you even been home yet?"

"Nope." Galindez replied, shoving his hands into his trouser pockets.

"Then I repeat," Clay said, his patience thinning even further, "what are you doing back here? Does Paulina even know you're back?"

Galindez seemed to consider this. "Not yet," he admitted.

"Better hope that she doesn't find out," Clay returned. "Divorce lawyers don't come cheap in this town."

Victor grinned, clearly unconcerned. "Good thing I know a lawyer or two."

Clay shook his head. "Don't look for help from that quarter. Knowing Sarah and Bobbie, they would probably side with the opposition."

Galindez glanced around the room. "Speaking of which, where are your ladies?"

Clay shot a peevish glance at his dinner tray. "They went out for lunch. The cafeteria food didn't appeal to them."

Victor merely nodded, and then turned to shoot a direct look at the agent, sitting quietly in a chair opposite the bed. Wordlessly, the man rose and left the room, quietly pulling the door shut behind him. Clay's green eyes narrowed intently upon his friend.

"The room has been swept," he said casually, "but this really isn't the place to talk shop."

"It's not business," Victor said tersely, crossing the room and closing the distance between them. "It's personal. –What in the hell is going on with you and Mac?"

Webb did not so much as turn a hair, but Galindez could practically hear the steel shutters slamming down behind the olive green eyes.

"What did she say?" the older man asked, his voice carefully neutral.

"It's not what she said," Galindez lied, taking care to keep his expression as flat and unrevealing as Webb's. "It's what she didn't say. It's what _you_ aren't saying. She's worried about you, and you're doing your damndest to keep her at arm's length."

Clay flashed him an angry look. "What is this? Your Doctor Laura impression?" He shoved the table and tray away and straightened up in his bed, his posture indignant. "This is ridiculous!" he snapped.

"Is it?" Victor returned. "You know she slept like shit last night? I could hear her tossing and turning all the way down the hallway. She wanted to be here with you. Why did you send her away?"

He was met with silence. The hazel green eyes were flat and impenetrable.

"What's the matter?" Victor challenged softly. "Afraid you'll talk in your sleep?"

Webb's gaze shifted slightly, and he knew that he had hit close enough to the mark. Snagging the straight backed chair that the agent had been sitting in, Victor brought it close to the side of the bed, spun it around and straddled it. His dark eyes waged a silent war with that cool, green gaze.

"I saw Catherine's memo," Victor said gently. "You never told her, did you?"

Webb glared at him. "Neither did you," he shot back.

Galindez shrugged. "It wasn't my place," he said simply. "I always figured it was yours."

Webb's eyes slid away, silently conceding victory. "You're right," he said finally.

"So what are you going to do?" Victor wondered. "It's not classified as far as the Company is concerned. It never was. We just never told them …and they never told the Navy."

"It's not our problem if the Navy made its own assumptions," Clay said softly.

"It's going to be." Galindez replied. He studied the man in the bed for a long moment. "You could classify it if you wanted to. You are the DCI after all, and it directly involved you. No one would question it."

Webb snorted "You don't think I haven't thought of that?" He laughed harshly, "God, the irony! You might as well just take my name plate off the door and re-hang Merrill Watts's. I'd hate to think that after all the years of despising the old bastard that I finally turned into him."

"Have you ever considered just telling her?" Victor suggested.

Webb sighed. "About a hundred times a day," he confessed. He shook his head. "I can't do it, Victor," he said bitterly. "There are too many things she doesn't know, and I've worked damned hard to keep it that way."

"Are you sure that's wise?"

Clay's laugh was harsh and bitter. "It's not wise, --it's imperative. If she had the slightest notion of the things I've done…"

"She'd leave you?"

A flash of pain crossed his features. "So fast it would make your head spin," he said.

Galindez regarded him for a long moment. "You know," he said finally, "for a man with a Harvard education, you really aren't all that bright."

Rising from his chair, Victor shoved it against the wall and turned back to face his friend. "You should tell her," he said at last, "and you should do it soon, --before she finds it out on her own."

He shoved his hands deep into his pockets. "Don't get me wrong, she'll be mad as hell at you –and she should be. But you need to tell her …and she needs to know."

"I'll lose her, Gunny." The words were harsh and desperate and filled with an anguish that Victor Galindez had rarely heard from the likes of Clayton Webb. He wanted to reassure his friend, but he couldn't. 

Now was not the time for platitudes. Only the truth would do.

"If you don't tell her," he said softly, "you'll lose her anyway."


	7. Chapter 7

**Chapter Seven**

_12:41_ ZULU__

_BELTWAY BURGERS_

_WASHINGTON__, __D.C.___

            "Dad is sooo going to kill us," Penny said darkly as she regarded her mother over the frames of her sunglasses.

            Mac stared down in dismay at the rear bumper of the Mercedes. Even from halfway across the parking lot, the damage was clearly visible. The tail light was cracked and the plastic molding broken. A long scratch and a smear of black paint marred the convertible's bright red finish. Damn. Even if it wasn't a holiday weekend, there was no chance of getting it in and out of the body shop in time. Plus Clay was nothing, if not observant. There was no way he wouldn't notice this. She muttered softly under her breath, cursing the unknown idiot who had backed out of the parking spot opposite them and clipped the bumper. Naturally, they had taken one look at the Mercedes emblem on the trunk and promptly run like hell. She couldn't blame them. She sighed and fished the keys from her pocket. These things wouldn't happen if Clay would just buy American.

            She punched the small button on the keyless entry and frowned as an odd, electronic sound emanated from the depths of the car. Great. She stared down in disgust at the remote control in her hand. She'd probably just broken that, too. She couldn't wait to get her 'Vette out of the shop.

            "Mom," Penny said, raising one eyebrow above the frames of her sunglasses, "the trunk is ringing."

            Belatedly, she recognized the muted tones of Clay's cell phone. Fumbling again with the remote, she managed to unlock the trunk. The sound was coming from the black athletic bag Victor had tossed into the trunk when they'd picked the car up from the club earlier that morning. She unzipped the bag and fished around amongst the fencing equipment until at last she found the phone.

            Flipping open the protective cover, she punched the button answering the call. There was a moment's hesitation, and then the tiny digital screen winked to life, revealing miniature image of a pleasant, round faced African American woman in her middle forties.

            "Hello?" she said tentatively, not recognizing the caller.

            The woman looked equally confused. "I'm calling for Mr. Webb?"

            "I'm his wife," Mac replied, staring down into the phone.

            The woman nodded. "This is Charlene from Violette's Flower Shop. I'm calling about the flower arrangements Mr. Webb ordered. He hasn't picked them up yet, and we were wondering if he'd like them delivered instead."

            God –the flowers—she'd forgotten all about them. She almost said yes, but the extreme boredom oozing from Penny's expression and the memory of her stilted conversation with Clay caused her to reconsider. She couldn't quite bring herself to face him right now. –Not after the way they'd left things.

She glanced down at the cracked bumper and quickly calculated the rest of the afternoon. He was scheduled to go for a barrage of tests at two –which wouldn't improve his mood any—and she couldn't see Penny hanging out in a hospital for another few hours without climbing the walls.  The flower shop wasn't far from here, and it was a beautiful day. The outing would do both of them good, she decided, and maybe while they were out running around the flowers she and Penny would somehow concoct a way to break the news to Clay about his car without inciting another heart attack.

            "No," she said at last to the woman waiting on the phone, "that won't be necessary. We'll be by to pick them up in a few minutes."

            She flipped the phone closed and mentally reorganized the rest of their weekend. She'd forgotten all about the blasted flowers. Bobbie and Harriet had taken nearly all of the picnic details out of her hands, and she really hadn't given much thought to the rest of the holiday, but the call from the florist suddenly sent a barrage of forgotten commitments flooding in. The flowers would have to be taken round to the cemeteries, and she still had to find time to go out and pick up Meredith, and eventually the Doctors were going to cut Clay loose and she was going to have to make arrangements to bring him home…

            First things first, she decided, shoving the phone into her handbag and looking to Penny. "What say we go get the flowers and run them around? We won't have time to do it tomorrow, and you can get something nice for Dad while you're there."

            Penny cocked one eyebrow. "Isn't that a little morbid?"

            "Not as long as you don't mix up the flower arrangements and give him the wrong one," Mac said practically.

            "Really, Mom!" Penny protested and then frowned slightly. "What about Dad? We told him we'd be right back after lunch."

            "Knowing your father, we're probably better off to leave him alone for a while. You know how he is when he isn't feeling good. He'll probably be as grouchy as an old bear. –He'll be so busy picking at the nurses that I doubt he'll even miss us."

            Penny shot her mother a knowing look. "You just don't want to tell him about the car."

            Mac looked again at the damaged bumper. "You're right."

_13:30_ ZULU__

_VIOLETTE'S FLOWER SHOP_

_ALEXANDRIA__, __VA___

            "I'm here to pick up an order for Webb?"

            The heavy-set woman with the ebony complexion and tight gray curls studied her for a long moment. "Orchids," she said at last.

            "Excuse me?" It was not exactly the response Mac had expected.

            "You must be the orchids," the woman said again, easing herself off of her stool and moving slowly towards the long row of coolers that were tightly packed with arrangements of fresh cut flowers. "Mr. Webb only orders 'em twice a year --Valentines Day and your birthday."

            Mac looked at her in open astonishment. "How did you know?"

            "Violette makes it her business to know all about her best customers," she shrugged. "I always thought it was a little odd he didn't just go with roses like most men usually do. –But then Mr. Webb ain't the usual sort. He's big on the details, that man. He's just the type to pick an exotic flower for an exotic beauty." The woman's dark eyes traveled briefly across her face. "I figure the orchids must be for you."

            Mac felt a small twinge of guilt as she regarded the woman. It occurred to her that in some ways, this woman had seen something in her husband that she had missed. She'd never really known why Clay had always brought her orchids. She'd loved them, but she'd never quite figured out the reason he had associated them with her. She had thought perhaps that they might have been the flowers that had bloomed outside the window of their hotel in Ciudad del Este, or perhaps because it had been the particular bloom he had picked for her in his mother's hot house the second time they had kissed. But now she recalled his words on that long ago evening as he had plucked the bloom from one of his mother's prized plants and tucked it behind your ear.

            _"It suits you," he had said. __"It goes with your eyes."_

            The door jangled softly behind them and the florist turned and smiled as Penny entered the shop. "And this must be Sweet Pea," she said.

            Mac's gaze narrowed upon the woman. How in the hell could she know that? Clay rarely bought Penny flowers, and when he did it was usually the pink roses that were her favorite.

            "She's grown some since the last time he brought her in though," Violette observed. She smiled broadly at Penny. "Why the last time I saw her, she was no more than knee high an' pickin' out all of my pink posies to take to her granny."

            "I remember," Penny said slowly, looking around the shop with interest. "We were getting flowers for grandma's birthday." She looked at the woman curiously. "You gave me a flower from your special garden."

            Violette smiled. "That I did. --One of my sweetheart roses. Your daddy never forgot it, either. He still orders sweetheart roses just for you. Normally I don't sell flowers from my private garden, but he's a special customer." The older woman forged her way through the shelves of potted plants and stuffed animals and mylar balloons to the coolers in the back of the shop. 

"He dotes on you, your daddy does," she continued, opening a glass door and rummaging through the flower arrangements as she checked the tags. "Always braggin' to me about how big you're gettin' an' how well you're doin' with your music an' horses. –Such a quiet man, but you should just see the way his face lights up when he talks about his Sweet Pea."

            Finding the tags that she was looking for, Violette began loading the flowers into Penny's and Mac's outstretched arms, taking an arrangement herself when they could carry no more. 

            "I'm surprised Mr. Webb didn't come himself," Violette commented as they set the flowers down on the counter. "He almost always comes himself, or has us deliver."

            "He would have been here," Mac explained, "But he's in the hospital."

            "Oh my, that's too bad!" Violette said. "You'll have to pick out some nice flowers to take to him. –On the house."

            "That's very kind of you," Mac said as the woman began wrapping up the floral arrangements. "How much do I owe you for these?"  
            "Oh, it's already paid for." The woman assured her. "Mr. Webb put it on his credit card when he ordered."

            Mac looked at the flowers, and then looked again. "Wait," she said. "There's one too many. There should only be four."

            "No," Violette said easily, continuing with her wrapping. "There's five. Mr. Webb always orders five."

            Mac stared at the flowers, silently matching each of them to their intended recipient. She supposed it was possible that she was becoming absent minded, but she really didn't think so. For the life of her, she couldn't think who the fifth arrangement was for.

            "Could I possibly see the order slip?" She asked. "I really could have sworn that we only ordered four." –Although Clay had been the one to place the order.

            The woman shrugged and turned to rummage through a small index box. Flipping to the "W's," she ruffled through several small slips of paper and extracted a sheet which she handed to Mac. 

            She read through the list. Lilies for Porter, and the usual arrangements they always got for the graves in Arlington …and one more. 

She tapped the line with the hurried carbon scrawl. "This one," she said. "I don't recognize this. What is it?"

Violette glanced down and nodded as if in sudden understanding. "Oh, that one." She said. "Forget Me Nots and Yellow Roses. –I should have realized. He always orders that one special. He picks it up himself if he's in town. –Has us deliver it straight to the cemetery if he's not. –We don't usually do that, but he is a special customer." 

She shot Mac a questioning glance. "Would you like to have us deliver them instead? I think we could still work it in to our schedule."

Mac shook her head. "No," she said slowly, "I'll take them," she said. "I'm just not exactly sure where they go. You don't happen to have the address do you?"

            The florist nodded. "I believe it's in the file here somewhere." Reaching for her computer, she tapped quickly on the keyboard, then grabbed one of her business cards and jotted the delivery address on the back and stapled it to the top of the paper wrap covering the flowers. Then she turned around and hollered towards the back of the shop.

            "Leroy!"

            A tall, slim young man with a warm brown complexion stuck his head through the back door. "Yes, Granny?"

            "Come take these flowers out to the car for the lady, will you?" Violette nodded towards the convertible, parked in front of the shop.

            Wiping his hands on his green apron, the young man smiled as he walked up to the counter and gathered up the flowers. "Sure thing, Granny." He said.

            Violette nodded in satisfaction and then turned to look at Penny. "Now, how about we pick out some nice flowers for you to take to your daddy?"

            "Ok," Penny said, and then looked uncertainly to her mother. "What kind of flowers would he like?" she asked.

            Mac was taken aback by the question. Frankly, she had no idea. She'd never bought flowers for Clay before. It was usually the other way around. "I don't know," she said at last, and turned to Violette. "What do you suggest?"

            The woman seemed to consider it for a moment. "Classy man like Mr. Webb," she mused, "I would go with roses …but not red ones. They been done to death." She walked to the long row of refrigerated cases that held selections of roses in all sizes and colors and studied it with a critical eye. "White, I think," she said at last, opening the door and drawing out six long-stemmed white roses. "In the language of flowers, red is for passion, but white means purity and truth, something that lasts a whole lot longer. In terms of roses, white also means friendship and true love." Her eyes glanced off of Penny to settle upon Mac. "Something tells me white roses will suit your daddy a whole lot better."

            Mac watched as the woman carefully arranged the buds into a slim crystal vase, and it suddenly occurred to her that white roses had one other meaning: secrecy.

            "I'm sure you're right," she murmured.

ARLINGTON NATIONAL CEMETERY  
14:22 ZULU__

            Mac handed the last two flower arrangements off to Penny and then locked the car. "Are you sure you can find them?" She asked again.

            "Mom, it's not like I haven't been out here a million times before. Geez! What do you think they do when we go? –Get up and move around?"

            Mac sighed. There was Clay's sarcastic side coming out again. She had half a mind to drop Penny back off at the hospital when they were finished here and let him deal with her for the rest of the afternoon. It would serve him right.

            Bending down, she picked up the other two pots of flowers. "It's just that Arlington is a big place," she said looking out over the rows and rows of uniform white head stones. "It's easy enough to get turned around."

            Adjusting her handbag over her shoulder, she reached inside and fished around for the cell phones. She brought up Clay's first, and then replaced it. Finding her own phone, she handed it to Penny. "If you can't find them, call me on Dad's number." She instructed.

            Penny took the phone with a long-suffering sigh and shoved it into the back pocket of her blue jeans. "If you insist," she muttered.

            "I do," Mac said firmly. That settled it. Penny was definitely going to spend some more quality time with her father when they were done.

            Setting out in search of her own appointed destinations, Mac idly wondered if she had been that bad when she was Penny's age. No, she decided quickly, she had been worse. By the time she had been fourteen, she'd already been well-versed in the contents of her father's liquor cabinet. –Not to mention the back seat of Bobby Reynold's daddy's Lincoln. She only prayed that Penny took after her father enough to avoid reaching that level of rebellion.

            She pushed all dismal memories of her past and nagging concerns of Penny's future to the back of her mind and began to count the rows of stones as she passed them. Even after all the years she'd been coming here, it wasn't easy to find the grave among the uniform rows of identical white granite. She used the grid system herself –thirteen rows north from the corner of the crossroads and fifty two stones in from the west side of the road.  Just as she was beginning to fear she had miscounted, she spotted a name that she vaguely recognized, and just beyond it, the marker that she sought.

            It was not neglected by any means. No grave at Arlington ever was. Beside the stone –just like every other one of the hundreds of thousands of graves—a tiny American flag fluttered in the breeze. She had not been the first visitor here either, she saw, for beside the flag was a small bouquet of flowers and furled within it, a small Russian flag. She smiled. Sergei. Bud had mentioned that he was coming back to town this week. She should have known.

            Dropping to her knees, she un-wrapped the flowers she had brought and carefully arranged them in the small plastic stand beside the others. Then she rocked back onto her heels and surveyed her handiwork. Satisfied that it was as aesthetically pleasing to the eye as she could make it, she finally allowed her eyes to fall upon the words chiseled into the stone before her.

            "Hello, Harm," she said.

***

            "I see that Segei's been here," she said, fingering the small Russian flag. "I suppose he told you what we're up to."

            She shook her head. "All these years and I still haven't escaped the Rabb curse. First you drag me halfway around the world to find out what happened to your father, and now Sergei's got me burying Washington in a pile of paperwork trying to find out what happened to you. –Not that I really expect that to get us anywhere, Washington bureaucracy has never been very efficient when it comes to handing out answers."

            She sighed and took a seat on the carefully manicured grass. "Did he tell you that he actually wanted them to dig you up? He doesn't believe it's really you under here." She smiled. "He's more paranoid than you are. He thinks it's all some sort of conspiracy. –That they buried an empty casket. Of course the cemetery board denied the exhumation request." She shook her head. "But I wouldn't get too comfortable. He's got Bud filing an appeal."

            "Maybe it was a mistake," she said softly. "The sealed casket…not waiting on the burial until he could come back from Russia. I'm sure it would have been horrible, but maybe…maybe if he'd actually seen you, he would have had some closure. Maybe we all would have."

            "What really happened to you, Harm?" she wondered softly.  "Are we ever going to know the truth?" 

She sighed. There were times when she actually wished that the Navy had just made something up, a plane crash, a training accident, something. But they hadn't. There had been nothing, save for the simple statement that Capt. Harmon Rabb Jr. had been killed while carrying out his duties and nothing more. He had been working with Naval Intelligence. They could get away that. It had been several months before the body had been returned. He had been buried with full military honors, but the funeral had been a rushed affair and there had been no time to reach Sergei. Maybe that was why he'd never really accepted Harm's death or the secrecy the military had draped around it. Still, it didn't explain the niggling little feeling she got when she thought about it. Like Harm's brother, she had always had the feeling that something wasn't right, that there was something more to the story, something she should know. Maybe that was why she'd never really accepted Harm's death, either. It certainly had had a lot to do with her reasons for taking the case, even though she'd known Clay wouldn't be happy about it. It had taken her weeks to work up the nerve to finally tell him today.

            She sighed. "You know, I dreamed about you last night, when I was at the hospital, waiting for Clay to come out of surgery. It was so good to have you back for a little while –even if you were just a figment of my imagination."

            She paused for a moment, remembering the intensity of that strange dream. "There were so many things we never said to each other," she said at last. "I always regretted that we never talked about it …about us …about why we never worked out. I know it was hard for you, when Clay and I got married, but you never gave me a chance to explain it. You just left. –And I let you. I always felt bad that we left things like that." 

She reached to her neck for the gold chain with the two rings suspended on it and fingered them for a moment. "I think Clay felt bad, too," she mused. "You were his closest friend, you know. –At least until Victor came along. You two always seemed to be at sword's points over something, but I think he enjoyed the sparring as much as you did." 

            She shook her head. "I just wish we could have found a way to make things work out between the three of us. I've missed you, Harm. –We both have."

            The spring breeze rose gently around her, fluttering the flags and rustling the wrapping paper of the second floral arrangement. She supposed she'd better go. She still had to find out exactly where they went, and Penny would be looking for her. She rose slowly to her feet, somewhat annoyed at the fact that it wasn't as easy a feat as it used to be, and brushed the grass from her blue jeans. 

            "Well," she said, "I'd better get a move on. I know I said I'd see you Memorial Day, but the way things are going, I'm not sure if we'll make it back out here or not. But you know I'll be thinking about you anyways."

            She picked up the second arrangement. "I'll see you around, flyboy," she whispered, and walked off in search of the second grave.

            Violette had written out pretty clear directions, and as she paused a moment to get her bearings, Sarah realized that the plot she was looking for really wasn't all that far away. It was still in the Navy section in fact. She frowned as she began to pick her way through the grave stones, wondering who it could be that Clay would be purchasing flowers for. Another colleague, she supposed. Likely some fallen friend in the Agency or the Intelligence community that had been granted the right to be buried at Arlington because of some past Naval service. It could have been anyone, she supposed. He rarely mentioned work if he could help it, and aside from Victor, Kennedy, his assistant Mandy and Catherine Gale, she had almost no idea of who he worked with.

            As she drew nearer to the row she was looking for, something nagged at the edges of her memory. This spot looked familiar, though she couldn't quite place it. She had been here before, she was sure, though she couldn't exactly remember when. She had attended several funerals here over the years, many of them for colleagues she had worked with and people she had known, but for the life of her, she couldn't quite place the reference in her memory.

            She stopped and glanced again at the card stapled to the top of the wrapping paper. Section 60, Plot 55-16. This was it. She turned and walked down the row, slowly counting off the graves as she passed, the feeling of familiarity growing even stronger.

            When she saw the name on the headstone, she suddenly understood. 

            Oh. Her. 

She looked down at the flowers in her hand. For the first time, she noticed that it really wasn't one arrangement, but two: a simple selection of rosebuds, and a separate, smaller bouquet of pale pink flowers. --Forget-me-nots and yellow roses.

She felt something twist inside her heart. Was this what he was hiding? Was this the thing that he was afraid she would discover? He should have known better. He had allowed her the annual pilgrimage to Harm's grave for years, and never said a word. She might not have understood what he had ever seen in the woman in the first place, but she would have understood this.

            He had told her years ago, before they were married, about his brief interlude with Lauren Singer and his subsequent discovery about the child that had resulted. At the time, she had wondered if he had been testing her, trying to scare her off. If he was, it hadn't worked. They had never spoken of it again, except once, before Penny was born, when she had had the miscarriage.

            She had been so buried in her own misery at the time that she really hadn't thought about Clay. It had only been months later, when she had finally worked up the courage to talk to him about trying again that she had fully realized the extent of his own pain. She found him after supper one night, standing in the darkened bedroom they had been planning to make into a nursery. There was something about the way he stood there, with his shoulders slumped and his hands thrust into the pockets of his trousers that had cracked through her own grief and she had gone up behind him, wrapping her arms about him and pressing her chin into his shoulder.

            "Maybe," he had said softly, "this is just God's way of telling me I wasn't meant to be a father. This is the second time, Sarah. I don't know if I can handle losing another child. It hurts too much –all the wondering. Wondering who they might have become, what I could have done differently. Maybe it's better this way. If I don't come home one of these days…." He let the words trail off, and she knew he was remembering his own father as well.

            "I don't believe that," she'd said fiercely, "and neither do you. Your mother told me once that the only thing that kept her going when your father died was the fact that she had you. Would you really do that to me, Clay? Would you really want to leave me alone?"

She heard his shuddering breath and she turned him to face her, wrapping him tightly in her embrace. He pressed his face into the hollow between her neck and shoulder and let the sobs take him.

"It's not that it's never meant to be, Clay," she whispered. "It's just not meant to be right now. We've got to believe that."

            She'd held him then, while he cried out his grief in that lonely, empty little room, and it was only then that she truly realized just what kind of a father he would make. He had never mentioned it again, and Penny had been the joy that had soothed their pain, but she should have realized he wouldn't have forgotten. Clay was not the sort of man to forget his failures.

Carefully, she un-wrapped the florist's paper and separated the flowers, securing each with their small plastic cones into the ground beside the stone. When she was done, she rose and stared down at the grave. She'd never liked Lauren Singer, but she felt guilty somehow at the realization that she'd given the woman little more than a passing thought in the years that had followed since her death. She didn't really know what Clay had felt for the woman. He'd claimed that it had not been any grand love affair, but merely a casual fling. Still, he must have felt something, or he wouldn't have brought the flowers year after year. She wondered how many other people came to Singer's grave and paused a moment to pay their respects and remember her. Somehow, she had a feeling that there was only one.


	8. Chapter 8

**Chapter Eight**

15:55 ZULU

_DUMBARTON OAKS SENIOR LIVING COMMUNITY_

_GEORGETOWN___

            Mac paused just inside the automatic sliding doors of the main lobby and took a moment to absorb the impact of the sleek and slightly garish décor. She always felt like she had entered a time warp each time she came here. In a certain sense, she supposed that that was exactly what she had done. The main lobby, the dining room, and many of the other common areas the residents shared were something straight out of the late 1960's, right down to the clunky, rotary dial telephones,  the blonde coffee and end tables. Even the huge cabinet television sets had knobs and dials, rather than buttons and remote controls. The resident apartments were a bit more updated; as they usually featured a more casual blend of the residents personal effects with sixties style furniture and fixtures.

            She shook her head as she crossed to the desk to greet a nurse in pristine whites that reminded her a little too much of "Nurse Dixie" from the old Emergency TV show. Crazy as it all seemed, there was a method to the madness, and she had to admit that the method seemed to work. The nurse paused to look up from the data she was entering into the computer hidden behind the counter and greeted Mac with a genuine smile.

            "Good afternoon, Mrs. Webb. Are you here to see Meredith?"

            Mac paused to consider this. "It depends," she said at last. "What kind of a day is she having? I don't want to stop in if you think it will upset her."

            The nurse, whose black name badge identified her as Susan Richards, RN, seemed to give the matter serious thought as she moved her mouse quickly over her desktop and selected the files for the patient in 117. 

 "No, she seems to be having a fairly good day," the nurse said at last. "She's had her usual ups and downs, but she seems to be pretty lucid. I'm sure she would appreciate the company." Nurse Richards smiled. "But be warned. Her imagination has been fairly active lately."

            Mac smiled back. "That's no surprise. You should have seen her ten years ago."

            Making her way around the corner and past the desk, Mac followed the long, brightly lit corridor that featured a long bank of windows to the East, sporadically interspersed with a few doors inset into the West wall. Coming to a stop before number 117, she drew a sharp breath and braced herself, wondering exactly who she would find behind it this time. She knocked hesitantly and waited, some half-remembered part of her still waiting for the familiar voice and the cheerful invitation to enter, but it never came.

            Putting her hand on the door knob, she turned it slowly and pushed the door inward, peering in cautiously. There was no response from the wing chair beside the window, but Mac could just make out the familiar form seated back against the cushions, her head tilted to stare vacantly out the window and her hands folded quietly in her lap.

            Moving slowly into the room, she paused long enough to drop her bag on the small coffee table in front of the love seat, and made her way to the woman's side.

            "Meredith?" she asked gently, laying her hand on the thin shoulder. 

            Meredith's head turned at the sound of her name, and warm brown eyes swept intently over Mac's face, searching for recognition…and failing.

            "I'm sorry," Meredith said at last, "We're not having classes today and my office hours are from…" she trailed off, not quite remembering when her office hours had been.

            Mac smiled faintly. "Eleven-thirty to one," she said softly, "I know."

            She sat down in the chair opposite Meredith's. "I just thought I'd stop in for a while," she explained gently. "The nurses said they thought you might like some company. –Would you?"

            There was a brief pause, and then slowly, Meredith nodded. They sat in silence for a few long minutes. Meredith stared distantly out the window at the fresh crop of bright spring flowers waving gaily in the breeze. Whether or not she really registered them was hard to tell. Her face was impassive, with no hint of the random thoughts that struggled through the muddled maze her mind and memory had become. Meredith watched the flowers. Mac watched Meredith. Even after these last few years, it was hard to reconcile this silent, passive figure with the bright, vibrant, articulate woman she once had been. It was difficult for her to see Meredith like this, but hard as it was, she knew that it had been harder on A.J.

            Both he and Meredith had put up a valiant fight those first few years after she had been diagnosed. They had done all the medicines, all the treatments, all the different types of therapy and counseling they could find, even though they both had known the day would come when the Alzheimer's would win. That day had come a little over three years ago when Meredith, caught in a fit of dementia, had wandered away from their Alexandria home and nearly been struck by a car. In the twenty odd years that she had known him, it had been the only time she had ever seen A.J. Chegwidden bowed by an experience.

            "I can't do it anymore, Mac." He had murmured. His posture had been weary and his eyes defeated. "I can't take care of her. I can't keep her safe. Will you help me find a place?"

            Together, they had found this one. It had seemed a little odd at first, but the Alzheimer's wing at Dumbarton Oakes had come highly recommended in spite of its unusual approach. Designed by a prominent gerontologist who specialized in cases of memory loss and dementia, the rather dated interior design served to reduce the confusion of its elderly residents by removing them from the confusion of the modern world and taking them back to a time they remembered more vividly. Many of Meredith's neighbors –and Meredith included—hadn't the slightest idea of how to run the sleek, voice activated video screens and other technological wonders that the younger generations had interfaced so seamlessly with. But in this world, they didn't need to. Their short term memories might be completely non-existent. They might not remember something that happened five minutes ago, but most of them had no problem managing to surf their favorite channels on the old-fashioned television sets, or making popcorn in the ridiculously large, clumsy microwave that occupied the entire corner of the rec-room kitchenette. If anything, the antiquated furnishings seemed to decrease their anxiety and instilled in many a confidence that they had lost those last few years of struggling in their own homes. Certainly the place had had a soothing effect upon Meredith, and much of her room was furnished with the small, cozy and useful items with which she had furnished her office at the college. She was comfortable here, not the anxious, nervous wreck she had become those last few months at home. If anything, there were days when she seemed almost normal. –Except for the silence.

            Mac still couldn't get used to it. Meredith had been one of the most intelligent, and vibrant personalities she had ever known. It was odd to see her like this, so quiet and introspective. It was almost as hard as the days –like today—when Meredith didn't know her. Unfortunately, those days had become more and more frequent over the last few months. She feared the day was soon coming when the final spark of self-awareness would disappear completely, and all that would be left was a vacant shell. She tried to tell herself that she would still come to visit, that she wouldn't completely abandon her friend when that day came, but she feared that day just the same. As hard as it was to be here now, how much harder would it be when there was nothing left of Meredith at all? But she was Meredith's friend, she told herself stubbornly …and she had promised A.J. She would come. She had given her word.

            Seeking to shake herself from the dark path her thoughts had taken, she rose and turned to smile at Meredith. "I could use a cup of tea," she announced. "Would you like some?"

            Meredith nodded again, and Mac set about putting the water to heat in the small electric tea kettle that sat on the small kitchenette counter in the corner of the long room that comprised Meredith's apartment. Rummaging about in the cabinet for some tea bags and sugar, she set them on a small metal tray along with a couple of ceramic mugs and a small box of cookies she found in the cabinet. When the tea was ready, she brought the tray over and set it on the small table between the two wing chairs.

            Meredith stared at the tray for a long moment. Then with slow and hesitant movements, she picked up the spoon and extracted the tea bag from her mug, squeezing the excess liquid from the bag with her thumb before depositing it on her saucer. She used the spoon to scoop two lumps of sugar from the small porcelain bowl, and then stirred it carefully. After another long moment, she removed the spoon from the mug and set it on the saucer. She gazed anxiously at Mac.

            Mac smiled and nodded her approval. She picked up her own mug and brought it to her lips, taking a tentative sip. "It's good," she said encouragingly. "Try some."

            Meredith obeyed, taking her own cautious sip. Her brown eyes lit with pleasure and she smiled. Mac's heart squeezed slightly in her chest. There, at least, had been a bit of the old Meredith. 

They sat for several long moments, drinking there tea, and Mac finally started to felt the tensions of the day slip away from her. She would have to get back to the hospital soon, she knew. Clay and Penny would be wondering what was keeping her. It had been more than a little out of her way to run Penny back to Bethesda, but sitting here alone in Meredith's silence; she knew it had been the best thing to do. Penny had been a good sport about the flowers, and the walk around Arlington had burned up some of her boundless energy. However, in light of the events of the weekend, bringing her here might have been a bit much. Besides, after spending most of the day in the midst of Penny's adolescent sarcasm, she figured that Clay more than deserved a dose of his own daughter for a while. She had dropped Penny off at the hospital after they had returned from Arlington and sworn her to secrecy about the car before accompanying her upstairs to check on Clay. She had promised them both to be back in time for dinner, and she didn't need to glance at the clock on Meredith's wall to know that it was almost five. By the time she got back in Clay's car and braved the rush of Saturday evening traffic, it would be perilously close to the dinner hour. She would have to leave soon.

            "Where is Penny?" Meredith's voice, so clear and curious, surprised Mac and she jumped slightly.

            She turned to look at Meredith and was grateful to see a glint of awareness in the whiskey brown eyes. So the nurse had been right. It was one of her good days after all.

            "She's with Clay," Mac explained, setting down her empty mug. "He's in the hospital. He had a heart attack, but he's going to be ok. The doctors will probably let him go home tomorrow."

            Meredith nodded vaguely. "I think I heard that," she mused, taking another sip of her tea. "I wonder who told me?" She frowned in concentration. "Maybe it was A.J.," she decided at last.

            Mac smiled faintly. "Actually, I think it was Harriet. She said last night that she'd been here visiting with you when Bud called to tell her what happened."  
            "Oh," Meredith said vacantly. "That's right," and Mac wondered if she even really registered who exactly Harriet was. Somehow, she doubted it.

 Meredith sighed. It was a small sound of self disgust. "I was the one who told A.J."

            Mac's smile twisted slightly, but she said nothing. Meredith set down her mug. "It's too bad you missed him," she continued, her voice conversational. "He was here this morning, but he left. I think he was going to go play golf with Tim Fawkes.

            Mac's smile broadened. "Somehow, I never pictured the Admiral as much of one for golf."

            Meredith shrugged. "All in all, he'd rather be fishing, but I think Tim twisted his arm. Tim was going to go play with the Webbs and they needed another person to make it a foursome."

            This time Mac barely suppressed a chuckle, she understood what the nurse had meant about there being nothing wrong about Meredith's imagination. She suddenly had a clear mental picture of A.J. Chegwidden, Tim Fawkes, and Porter and Neville Webb riding around on a little white golf cart and drinking martinis. She'd have to tell Clay. He'd get a kick out of it.

            The electronic Regulator clock on Meredith's wall chimed the quarter hour, reminding Mac again of the time. Actually, according to her own internal chronometer, the clock was five minutes slow. She definitely had to get going. Reluctantly she rose from her chair. "I hate to leave," she said, "But I've really got to get back to the hospital. I promised them I'd be back in time for dinner, and Penny's probably driving Clay crazy right now."

            "Oh," Meredith said, her voice full of disappointment. "Do you have to? A.J. will be back any time, and I know he'll be so disappointed that he missed you."

            Mac smiled. "Actually, I've already seen him."

            Meredith brightened. "Really?"

            Mac nodded. "Just before I dropped Penny off and came here. We took him some flowers."

            Meredith frowned. "Flowers? Whatever for?"

            Mac's throat tightened a bit, but she managed to keep her voice steady and her smile in place as she answered. "Oh, no reason. We just happened to be in the neighborhood and we wanted him to know we were thinking of him."

            Meredith reached up and grasped her hand. "He thinks of you," she said softly.

            Mac's smile turned tremulous. "I'm glad," she said, and suddenly remembered her reason for coming here in the first place.

            "Meredith, it's Memorial Day the day after tomorrow, and we're having a picnic out at the house. I was wondering if you were feeling up to it then, if you might like to come out for a little while. Maybe on the way home we could stop and …and see the Admiral …and Harm and Tim Fawkes."

            Meredith's hands twisted nervously in the soft velvet of her robe, and Mac could see that she was anxious at the prospect of leaving the safe familiarity of her room and venturing out into the wide and confusing world beyond. Another painful irony, she thought, that the woman who had once chased after adventure, had jumped out of airplanes and raced stock cars should be afraid of leaving this little room. But there must have still been a streak of the old Meredith around, for a moment later she cocked her head slightly as if listening to some unknown voice that only she could hear. She smiled faintly and glanced back to Mac, the distance growing in her eyes.

            "If it's a good day," she said, "Then A.J. and I would love to come."

            She was standing in the parking lot of the care center and fishing around in the bottom of her handbag for the keys to the Mercedes when her phone rang. Fumbling around in between her wallet, her business card case, her sunglasses  and Clay's phone, she finally managed to lay hands on her own phone and extract it from the bag. She punched the button and waited until the familiar face of Bud Roberts suddenly appeared in the small digital screen. Judging from the angle of the camera and the black Mr. Spock T-Shirt he was wearing, she guessed that he was likely calling her from his home computer.

            "Bud," she said, somewhat surprised to be hearing from him. When she had seen the name on the caller ID, she had expected it to be Harriet, calling with more details about the party on Monday.

            "Mac," he returned, his voice halfway apologetic. "I haven't caught you at a bad time, have I?"

            Frankly, this whole weekend was a bad time, but she shook her head and lied gracefully into the tiny vid-cell camera. "No," she replied, "Not at all, I just finished visiting Meredith and was on my way back to the hospital."

            Bud nodded. "How's Clay doing?"

            "Good," she replied. "He was already driving people crazy when I left."

            Bud shifted uneasily in his chair. "Look, I hate to bother you, especially with everything that's going on, but I was wondering if you might be able to meet down at the office in about half an hour. I just got off the phone with Bobbie, and she's already heading out."

"What's up?" She asked quickly, her interest sparked.

Bud frowned. "There's been a new development in the Zhukov case."

"What sort of development?" Her voice was a bit sharper than she had intended.

Bud gazed unflinchingly into the camera. "I've just uncovered something that could have a direct bearing on our appeal for the exhumation request," he explained. "I had a friend go digging through the old autopsy reports from the Coroner's office at Pearl. The logs show that a Coroner's exam was performed on Captain Rabb when the body was flown in from South Korea. Apparently it's standard procedure to confirm identification and be sure that no dangerous communicable diseases or viruses are transmitted with the remains."

            "And?" Mac demanded, her patience thinning.

            "Like I said, the log shows that an autopsy was performed, but the autopsy report is missing."

            "We know that, Bud." Mac said impatiently, "That's the standard line the Navy has been giving us for the last six months. The report was mis-filed and lost."

            "It wasn't lost." Bud said. "It was destroyed."

            "What?"

            Bud leaned forward in his chair to pull a file from his desk, the angle of his monitor mounted camera giving her an unflattering close-up of Mr. Spock as he did so. The rumpled Vulcan features receded as he leaned back in his chair and began paging through the file.

            "The log at Pearl happened to list the name of the Navy Coroner who performed the exam …a Doctor Bailey. I had Lorna track him down. He's out of the Navy now. He's the head of the Dane County Coroner's Office in Madison, Wisconsin. I just had a very interesting telephone conversation with him."

            "And?" Mac demanded. The suspense was killing her.

            "Let's just say that if Doctor Bailey is willing to testify, our case for appeal will be a slam dunk."

            "What did you find, Bud?" Mac asked. Her mouth suddenly felt dry.

            Bud shook his head. "Not over the phone," he said. She heard the faint slamming of a door somewhere in the background and the faint chatter of voices. Harriet and the kids must be home. "How soon can you meet us downtown?"

            "I'll be there in thirty minutes."

***

_18:15_ ZULU__

_KRESGE__MEDICAL__CENTER___

_PIMMIT HILLS__, __VA___

            "Daaad…" Penny drew out the word in the wheedling tone he knew so well, "you really should eat something. Nurse Ratchet is gonna have a fit if you don't."

            Clay's mouth quirked slightly at his daughter's wicked appellation for the woman who was the terror of the seventh floor. "I'm surprised you even know who Nurse Ratchet is. Isn't that story is a little before your time?"

             "We had to read One Flew Over the Cuckoo's Nest for American Lit." She tossed him a disgusted look. "Quit trying to change the subject, and eat your supper."

            He stared down at the unappetizing blob that the hospital cafeteria was trying to pass of as chicken cacciatore.  He looked back up at Penny. "I'll give you fifty bucks if you'll call Andre's and have them deliver us an order of soft shell crabs."

            She folded her arms across her chest in a perfect imitation of her mother. "Nice try, Daddy. It won't work. Mom has your wallet. Besides," her voice took on a superior lilt, "the doctor says you're on a strict diet. You eat what they give you."

            He shot her a challenging look. "And if I don't? –What are you going to do? Tell Nurse Ratchet?"

            She shook her head. "Worse," she proclaimed flatly. "I'll tell Mom."

            He glared at her and picked up his fork. "Who taught you to fight so dirty?"

            She twitched her lips slightly, flashing him his own patented smirk. "You did," she replied. "Just think of it as getting even for that time you made me eat the brussel sprouts at the birthday party for the Belgian Ambassador's grandson."

            A soft chuckle emanated from the doorway, and he looked up to see Rear Admiral Sturgis Turner regarding them with amusement dancing in his coffee brown eyes. The agent on duty was standing slightly in front of him, and Clay nodded to the man, bidding him to allow Turner to enter.

            "What's so funny?" Clay demanded, his irritation growing.

            Turner merely smiled and shook his head. "Nothing," he said easily, stepping a little farther into the room. "I was just suddenly reminded of an old line of my father's. …Something about how everyone gets the children they deserve."

            "You think it's funny now," Clay said, stabbing viciously at the rubbery chicken with his fork. "Just wait, it'll come back to bite you in the ass later."

            Turner raised an eyebrow in the expression of wide-eyed innocence. "Me? --I don't think so. I was an angel …and that's what God gave me."

            "That he did," Clay agreed quietly. "Where is the lady of the hour?"

            Turner's proud smile broadened. "Right here," he said, stepping aside to reveal Rachel, standing behind them.

            "Hi Uncle Clay," she said shyly, offering him a tentative smile. 

            "Come here," he said gruffly. He dropped his fork and pushed his dinner tray aside, grateful for the momentary reprieve. She came slowly, her footsteps hesitant. He opened his arms and she hurried into them, hugging him almost as fiercely as Penny had done.

            "I'm sorry," she sobbed, a small shudder racking her slim body as she pressed her chin into his shoulder.

            "For what?" he murmured, rubbing her shoulder blades in a soothing motion with the hand that wasn't jabbed full of intravenous tubes. 

            "For causing your heart attack," she sniffed. "It never would have happened if you hadn't been fencing with me."

            His eyes met Sturgis's across the room and a swift and silent look of understanding passed between them. Pushing Rachel back, he took her face firmly between his palms, willing her to look directly into his eyes.

            "Hey," he said sharply, commanding her attention. "None of this is your fault. "

            He brushed his thumbs across her cheek bones, wiping away the damp trails of her tears. "This could have happened anywhere, at any time. I could have been working at my desk, or sitting at home watching TV. It still would have happened."

He stroked back a handful of her tightly woven ebony braids, tucking them behind her ear. "I'm just glad it happened when and where it did," he said quietly. "Do you know what I probably would have been doing if I hadn't been fencing with you? I'd probably have been out to the stable, taking Ajax for a ride, or home doing laps in the pool. Penny would have still been at school and Sarah was at work. –I would have been alone, Rachel. I would have died."

            This elicited another wave of tears, and he wrapped her in another hug, rocking her gently and smiling. "It's ok, honey," he murmured, pressing his head tightly against hers. "I'm glad I was fencing with you. I'm glad you were there."  
            "I was so afraid," Rachel sobbed, "I thought you would be mad at me."

            "Now that is the most ridiculous thing I've heard all day," he proclaimed, pulling back to look at her once more. "What I am is grateful," he said, fixing her with his level green gaze. "What I want to do is thank you, sweetheart. Thank you for saving my life."

            He placed a gentle kiss on her forehead, and she smiled shyly at him.

            "Thank you, Uncle Clay," she said, wiping her cheeks. "I'm really glad you're going to be ok."

            "So am I," he murmured and then gave her a sidelong glance. "Of course, this doesn't give you an excuse to slide on your training. I fully expect you to qualify at the trials next week. Victor is back in town, so there's no reason you can't spend at least a little time out at the range with him, and it would do you and Penny both some good to get out and ride a little more."

            "Oh believe me," Turner assured him as he leaned one shoulder against the wall. "She'll be doing her share of time at the gym this week." He shot Clay an inquisitive look. "When did Vic get back?"

            "Last night," Clay replied.

            Turner frowned. "Funny. Paulina didn't mention it when Bobbie called her this morning to see what she was bringing for the picnic."

            "She probably didn't know," Clay said. "He hadn't been home yet. He had to go to Langley and debrief."

            "Oh, he is a dead man." Sturgis said thoughtfully, carefully drawing out each word. "If we tell her, that is." His smile was deceptively pleasant. "I think I know who's buying the beer this year."

            "Yeah," Clay snorted. "Too bad I won't be able to drink any of it."  
            "We'll do our best to pick up your slack," Sturgis assured him. "Speaking of which, you know Bobbie and I were thinking that maybe we ought to have the party at our place instead, seeing as how you and Mac already have so much to worry about right now."

            Clay shot him a surprised look. "You really want Tiner's kids running through your house? At least at our place we can run them all out into the back yard and lock them in. The worst they can do is drown each other in the pool."

            "We should have drowned Tiner," Sturgis grumbled. "You'd think he and Jen would have had the sense to stop at five." He shook his head and straightened away from the wall. "Anyway, Bobbie was going to pitch the idea to Mac. We figured this way you guys won't have to worry about a thing. Bud and I are taking care of the steaks, Bobbie and Harriet, Jen and Paulina are already all over the rest of the food and we'll leave the beer to Galindez."

            Clay smirked. "Just do us all a favor and keep Bud away from the CD changer."

            "Got it covered." Sturgis said. "I put Tiner in charge of the music."

            "God help us," Clay groaned, and then brightened slightly as another thought struck him. "On the other hand, I can always go home. –You're the one who'll be stuck with Bud's music and Tiner's kids."

            Sturgis shot him a sidelong look. "You're a real pal, Clay," he said dryly.

            Whatever witty repartee he might have added was abruptly cut off as the bedside table with his dinner tray was suddenly shoved back under his nose. Penny leaned over it, her hazel eyes flashing with a hint of gold and green. "Ok, Dad, enough stalling. You're not going to talk your way out of this one."

            He flashed her an annoyed look and began cutting into the chicken which was even colder now than it had been when they first delivered it. It tasted like cardboard and marinara sauce …cheap marinara sauce. He chewed it without relish and swallowed, then took a sip of the lukewarm coffee to wash it down.

            "Satisfied?"

            "No." She said honestly. "Not until you eat it all. –You made me eat all of those brussel sprouts."

            God, how had he managed to raise such a pain in the ass? Had he been that bad when he was her age? He took another bite of the chicken, resenting every morsel, and thought about it for a moment. Yes, he decided. He supposed he had. 

Between small talk with Sturgis, and the occasional sip of water to rinse his palate, he dutifully plunged into the meal. It was an effort, but somehow he managed to finish the chicken and the vegetables and the rubbery jello under Penny's watchful eye without too much grumbling. He was eternally grateful that the strict guidelines of his new diet dictated the vile portions be small. He doubted he could have stomached any more of the stuff. 

Glancing at the clock mounted high on the wall above the foot of his bed; he again took note of the time and felt a small twinge of concern stab at the back of his consciousness. Damn it, she was late. –A good hour late, in fact. He didn't like it. It wasn't like her not to at least call. He sighed and cast an irritated glance at Penny, who was chatting animatedly with Rachel.

"I wonder where your mother is."

Penny shrugged, unconcerned. "She probably just got stuck in traffic on the beltway or something."

Clay tugged restlessly at his sheets. "She knows better than to take the beltway. –And even if she didn't, she could at least call."

"Actually," Turner offered, "She's probably down at the office with Bobbie and Bud."

"What in the hell are they doing down there?" Clay asked sharply. "It's a holiday weekend for God's sake. Nobody works on a Saturday in this town if they can help it."

Turner shrugged. "Search me. Bobbie called me an hour ago and told Rachel and I not to wait dinner on her. She said Bud called and something big had broken open on one of their cases. I assume they're all meeting down there for a pow-wow. Likely Mac got caught up in it too."

Clay was about to grouse that it was still no excuse for her not to call and at least let them know she wasn't dead, when he was interrupted by a soft electronic jangle. Sturgis reached down and grabbed his phone off his belt. He glanced at the caller ID. It showed the number for Mackenzie, Latham and Roberts.

"Speak of the Devil," he said and answered the call.

"Hey Honey," he said, smiling down into the tiny camera.

Bobbie's voice responded, but it was garbled and filled with static. Turner frowned and stabbed another button, bringing the phone up to his ear. "Sorry babe," he said, speaking closely into the phone, "Have to ditch the camera. The reception isn't very good here. I can barely hear you. –Where are you at?"

He paused for a moment, walking towards the window, where the reception was better. "Uh huh," he said, glancing out the window. "When are you gonna get home?"

He smiled faintly. "That big, huh?" He paused and listened to her reply, nodding his understanding.

"Hey," he said, catching Clay's worried glance in the reflection of the window. "Is Mac there with you? Clay and Penny have been looking for her." 

He paused again and then turned and nodded his confirmation to Clay. Webb relaxed a little, some of his worry easing. Still, he couldn't help the edgy feeling that was growing upon him. It wasn't like Sarah not to call. Turner continued to listen to Bobbie's litany, nodding and making small noises of understanding from time to time as was appropriate.

"Uh-huh," he said at last. "That's not a problem. I'm at the hospital now."

Sturgis turned to look at Penny and Rachel, who had resumed their conversation and smiled faintly. "No, I don't think they'll mind a bit." He shot a speculative glance in Webb's direction. "Clay's here too. Does Mac want to talk to him? I can put him on."

A brief look of surprise crossed his face. "Oh. Ok. –I'll tell him that."

He paused to catch Bobbie's last few words. "All right," he said at last. "We'll see you later then. Love you too, babe," he added, and ended the call.

"Well?" Clay said impatiently, a little piqued that Sarah had not bothered to take the time to talk with him.

"It sounds like they're having a pretty big meeting down there. They could be a while. Mac wanted to know if we could take Penny home with us. She's not sure she's going to make it back here before visiting hours are over."

He glanced at Penny. "You can stay over again if you want too. From the sound of things, they might be pretty late wrapping things up."  
            "You should stay," Rachel cajoled, looking at Penny. "Then we can go riding together in the morning."

"Cool," Penny said.

Sturgis looked at Clay. "Well, I guess that's settled."

"I guess so," Clay returned. He kept his voice carefully neutral, but it didn't fool Turner. The Admiral shot him a small smile.

"I wouldn't worry about it too much," he said. "Knowing Mac, she'll probably try to sneak in on her way home, even if it's after visiting hours. Either that, or she'll probably call."

"I'm sure she will," he said, but suddenly, he wasn't sure at all. He could feel the stone sinking in the bottom of his stomach. –A big break on a case… What if …? He felt his stomach clench. God, don't let it be that. Not here. Not now.

He somehow managed to feign carelessness as he chatted with Turner a few minutes longer before finally kissing Penny good night. He waited for a while after they left before turning on the television in a vain attempt to catch up to the news, but his mind wasn't on it. The eight o'clock visitor's bell came and went. The ten o'clock lights out sounded, and the rooms automatically darkened. Uneasily, Clay settled back into his pillow and stared at the faint flashing light of the heart monitor.

Sarah hadn't come …and the phone never rang.

18:30 ZULU

LAW OFFICES OF MACKENZIE, LATHAM & ROBERTS

725 F STREET

WASHINGTON, D.C.

            Bobbie Latham Turner settled into the padded leather chair at her end of the small conference table and glanced through the jumble of handwritten notes, still warm from the copier, that were placed in front of her.

            "So what exactly do we have here, Bud?"

            "A rough transcript of my conversation with Doctor Bailey," Bud replied settling into his own chair and looking from Bobbie to Mac. Mac noted that although he was still dressed casually, he had at least taken the time to exchange the Star Trek T-shirt for a simple white polo. She couldn't blame him. She imagined it would be a little difficult to get anyone to take you seriously with Mr. Spock glaring at them from across your chest –especially your business partners.

Bud sorted through his notes as he mentally ordered his thoughts. "I think once we go through everything, you'll both agree that it's worth flying Lorna to Wisconsin next week to take his formal deposition."  
            "What exactly have you got?" Mac asked, anxious to hear the news.

Flipping through his legal pad, Bud found the page he was looking for and waded in. "Ok," he said, squinting down at his own cramped notes. "According to the military service records and Doctor Bailey's own account, he was a Navy coroner stationed on active duty at Pearl at the time of Captain Rabb's alleged death."

"Alleged?" Bobbie asked, raising an eyebrow.

Bud held up a hand, "I'll get to that."

He continued skimming through his notes. "Apparently in cases where active duty personnel have died or been killed outside of the United States, it is standard procedure to have an official coroner's exam –if not an autopsy—performed upon the body's first point of arrival in the United States. In the case of Captain Rabb, that would have been Hawaii. The log books show that Doctor Bailey was the only coroner on duty the day that the Captain's body was flown to Pearl. As a result, he would have performed the exam."

"Did he?" Bobbie asked.

"Doctor Bailey claims he did." Bud replied. "The Navy, however, has no record of this procedure."

"The Navy has no records, period," Mac grumbled. "We've been fighting the lost records and sealed files battle for months."  
            Bobbie looked unconvinced. "Dr. Bailey must have performed thousands of autopsies and exams in the course of his career. Are we really asking a judge to accept that this one particular case could stick out so vividly in his mind that he could recall the details accurately, ten years after the fact?"

Bobbie's years on Capitol Hill had made her skilled in the art of inquisition, and as a result she fell quite naturally into the role of Devil's Advocate. There had been a time, back when they had first started the firm, that Bud and even Mac had been a bit disconcerted, and even intimidated by it. Over the years, however, they both had learned not to take offense as they argued their points to the bitter end. There were some who found Bobbie's personality abrasive, but Mac had to admit that she was a top flight lawyer, and in the course of these long and oftentimes frustrating arguments around the conference table, Bobbie had served to make both Bud and herself better lawyers as well. When it came to testing a case for holes, Mac's private rule of thumb was that if Bobbie couldn't shoot a hole in their arguments, then a judge or an opposing trial lawyer damned sure wouldn't be able to, either.

Bud met Bobbie's direct gaze unflinchingly. "Actually, Dr. Bailey remembers the case vividly. He cited it as one of the more memorable episodes in his military career."

"All right," Bobbie said at last. "You've got my attention."

Bud leaned back in his chair and relaxed slightly as Bobbie conceded the floor to him. "According to Dr. Bailey, he was indeed on duty the night that Captain Rabb's body was flown to Pearl. He and a Petty Officer drove out to meet the plane. He said that the body was accompanied by two Navy officers, a Captain and a Lt. Commander …and one civilian."

"State Department?" Bobbie asked.

"Or the CIA," Bud added.

"There's really not much difference, is there?" Mac said grimly. She looked at Bud. "I don't suppose Dr. Bailey's memory is good enough to recall any names?"  
            Bud shook his head. "He never knew their names, but I'd say that the Naval officers were likely Captain Macy and Lt. Commander Howard, the same officers who accompanied the body back to Washington. The civilian Bailey mentioned isn't named anywhere in the Naval documents, but if we can locate Macy or Howard, there is a chance that they might remember. –Not that they're likely to tell us much. They were both working with Naval Intelligence at the time. Odds are pretty good that they'll give us the standard party line."

"Need to know," Mac said irritably. It was a phrase she had grown entirely too tired of hearing over the years.

Bud nodded. "But that's beside the point. I think what everyone will find most interesting is Doctor Bailey's recollections of the events of that night." Bud referred to his notes once again.

"Apparently, when Bailey and the Petty Officer went to collect the body off of the airplane and deliver it to the morgue, they were surprised to discover that it had already been embalmed and sealed in a military issue aluminum casket."

"Why was this surprising?" Bobbie asked.

"Personnel who die overseas are usually shipped cold storage in body bags to the nearest U.S. base with an appropriate forensic facility. In the Pacific, that would be Pearl," Bud explained. "Because of the high risks for transmission of contagious diseases from third world countries, and to avoid the possibility of misidentification, all remains of deceased personnel are processed and embalmed at Pearl. Doctor Bailey was very surprised to discover that the Captain's body had already been packaged, so to speak. He asked them who had done it, and was told that it had been handled by the U.S. Embassy in South Korea, which he found unusual because as far as he knew, the U.S. military bases in South Korea still sent all of their bodies to Pearl for processing. When he asked for a copy of the coroner's report to include in his records, they couldn't provide him with one. This was about the same time as the large influenza outbreak in the Pacific, and they were under strict orders not to ship remains home without the proper tests and paperwork.

"When Bailey insisted that he be allowed to view the body and perform the proper tests, the officers accompanying the body protested. Since they outranked him, Bailey knew he was caught between the brass and the regulations, so he called his commanding officer. Bailey's CO ordered the casket ordered and the coroner's exam performed."

"Did he open the casket?" Bobbie asked.

Bud nodded. "Yes," he said, in spite of the stringent protests of the men accompanying it."

"And was there a body inside?"

Bud hesitated. "Yes," he said at last. "But not the one he was expecting."

Mac felt the blood drain from her cheeks as she absorbed the statement. "Are you saying it wasn't Harm?" She asked, her voice barely above a whisper.

Bud looked from Bobbie to Mac. "According to Doctor Bailey, it wasn't even close."


	9. Chapter 9

**Chapter Nine**

Bobbie Latham tucked the last few sheets of paper into her briefcase and switched off the lights as she exited the conference room. It was almost eight o'clock, and she was eager to be on her way. She never had gotten dinner, and she could only hope that Sturgis and the kids had done their usual routine tonight and gotten Pizza or Chinese or some other sort of take-out where leftovers were guaranteed. She was about to turn and head for the private stairwell that led to the underground parking garage when she spotted the solitary light burning from the office at the end of the hall. 

She hesitated for a moment, half tempted to flee to the safety of the stairwell and the lure of leftover pizza. She had never been very good at this sort of thing. Political hardball was her forte, not …girl talk. She smiled wryly at the thought. Even Rachel knew it. If it was about money, school, career and education plans or what she thought of the political situation in Liberia or some other far off place, her daughter never hesitated to approach her. But when it came to problems with friends, boys or other personal matters, she always deferred to Sturgis. Bobbie shook her head. It wasn't that she didn't want to talk about those things, but she just wasn't good at it. Still, as she stared at the pool of light spilling out from the front office, she knew she had to make an attempt. If she didn't, she was going to think about that solitary desk lamp burning late into the night and she was going to feel guilty.

Besides, she reminded herself, there was a good chance that these personal issues could affect the case. As a responsible lawyer, she could not allow that to happen and she'd always been one to meet problems head on, no matter how unpleasant the situation might become. Tightening her fingers around the handle of her briefcase, she strode purposefully down the hall towards the open doorway.

The brass banker's desk lamp with its green glass shade cast a warm golden glow across the elegant cherry desk and warmed the rich dark paneling of the room. Behind the desk, the sleek black leather chair was turned to face the windows and all Bobbie could see of her partner was a denim clad leg that ended in a white sneaker, resting upon the edge of the credenza.

"Are you going to be ok with this?" Bobbie asked, slowly entering the office and dropping her briefcase into one of the two small leather arm chairs on the other side of the desk. 

A dry laugh was issued from the chair. "It's a little late to be answering that isn't it? You should have asked me when we took this case in the first place."  
            "I thought about it," Bobbie admitted, "But I decided that if I could handle it, you could." She allowed her eyes to wander across the collection of small framed pictures that topped the credenza. "You didn't exactly have a corner on the market when it came to being in love with Harm."

The chair whirled around with vicious force and Bobbie met the flashing brown eyes squarely, momentarily glad that her words seemed to have left Mac too angry to speak. She raised her hands in a placating gesture. "That didn't quite come out the way I meant it."

"And just how did you mean it?" Mac ground out.

Bobbie sighed. "We all cared about him, Sarah. It's just the kind of guy that he was. Sometimes I think everybody he ever met was just a little bit in love with him. That's why this case is so difficult. We shouldn't take it, because we care too much. –But we can't refuse it."

"—Because we care too much." Mac finished softly.

Bobbie nodded and dropped into the other chair. "But our strong feelings for Harm aren't really what I was asking about. What I meant was, are you going to be ok with where this might lead?"

"You mean Bud's mystery man at Pearl Harbor?"

Bobbie nodded. "Bud only reached that conclusion by an educated guess, but you and I both know it implies more than that. I sat on the intelligence oversight committee –and you're married to the DCI. We both know that you can't pull off something like that without some serious connections. No simple station chief would have had the authority to bury something like that. It had to come from someone higher up the food chain –like a high ranking State Department Attaché."

"Or a CIA Deputy Director," Mac murmured. She gave Bobbie a long look. "Do you remember Harrison Kershaw?"

Bobbie raised an eyebrow. "You mean the Puppet master? Who could forget him? He testified before our committee when Watts was asked to step down." Bobbie paused to reflect. "He was a smooth operator," she said at last. "Sort of a blonde James Bond meets L.L. Bean. I think he could talk anybody into doing anything and he didn't have to be sweet about it. –God knows his testimony was good enough to make him a popular shoe-in as the next DCI."

"He was at Harm's funeral," Mac said.

Bobbie stared at her in surprise. "Kershaw? Are you sure? –I don't remember seeing him."

Mac frowned. "He only came to the grave side service. At the time, I didn't think much of it. I knew Harm had worked for him once, when he went to Paraguay to find out what had happened to Clay and me. I just assumed he must have come with Catherine Gale."

Bobbie shook her head. "Not exactly Kershaw's style. From everything I've ever heard about him, he wasn't much of one for public appearances. They used to say he could have walked through the middle of the bull pen at the Washington Post and even the top reporters on the Washington beat wouldn't have recognized him. The only two times I ever saw him were when he testified and when he was sworn in as DCI."

She fixed Mac with a hard look. "You really think Kershaw might have had something to do with this?"

Mac returned the look with equanimity. "Wouldn't you?"

Bobbie sighed. "It is odd that he showed up at the funeral. –And he would have had the clout to do it, --but why?"

Mac smiled faintly. "Why does the CIA do anything?"

Bobbie continued to stare at Mac, studying and assessing each hint of expression that traveled across her face. "Have you talked to Clay about any of this yet?"

Mac's features hardened. "I told him we had taken the case. Other than that, we haven't really discussed it."

Bobbie snorted. "I find that hard to believe. Knowing Clay, I'm sure he'd have something to say about it –whether you wanted to hear it or not."  
            "He didn't like it very much," Mac admitted, glancing away towards the window with its view of the dimly lit street outside.

"I imagine he didn't," Bobbie said, noting the tension that suddenly seemed to radiate off the other woman's body. So she hadn't been wrong, she thought. There definitely was trouble brewing between Clay and Sarah. She wondered if it was just this case, or something more. She hated to pry, but she had to know. This wasn't just personal any more. It was business.

She shot another glance to the credenza, with its array of small framed photographs. Front and center stood the largest of these, a family portrait of Penny and Clay and Mac, but as it often did, Bobbie's eye came to rest on a smaller image just to the left of it. It was a casual shot of Clayton Webb wearing riding clothes and standing in front of a white rail fence. A large bay gelding stood just behind Webb's shoulder on the other side of the fence. The horse's sleek ears were tipped forward and the liquid brown eyes seemed to dance with mischief as the black muzzle sniffed and poked at Clay's breast pocket in search of a treat. There was something about the picture that Bobbie had always liked. It was as if both Webb and the horse were smiling. –Not that a horse was capable of smiling. For that matter, she wasn't sure that Webb was, either. The best he ever seemed to manage was that irritating smirk. But this was different. This had nothing to do with their mouths. The smile was in their eyes. And it was real.

Webb was a complicated man, Bobbie thought, with so many facets that one sometimes had trouble reconciling the real person with the image he chose to project. There was the smooth politician, the wealthy playboy, the smarmy bureaucrat, and the charming spy. There was also the arrogant asshole, the ruthless negotiator, the hardened soldier and the stone-cold killer. –And somewhere, waging war with all of these personas, was the man in that picture, the loving father and devoted husband who could smile with a horse. That was what made dealing with him so difficult. You always had to figure out who he was today. You had to remember that he was all of these people …and none of them.  

She wondered if even Sarah had seen all the sides of Clayton Webb. Somehow she doubted it, though she was willing to allow that Sarah had seen more of them than anyone else ever had. Webb was funny that way. It was as if he always held some part of himself in check, showing different sides to different people, but never allowing anyone to see the whole. She studied the look of patent unhappiness in her friend's eyes and wondered just how much he was allowing Sarah to see now.

"You knew going into this that Clay wasn't going to like it," Bobbie observed, "that was why you put off telling him about it for so long."

"If I'd told him about it when we started, he would have tried to talk me out of taking the case," Mac said.  
            "Undoubtedly," Bobbie agreed. "Which only leads me to wonder…are his reasons for not wanting you looking into Harm's death personal, or professional?"

"Maybe both," Mac said, and Bobbie did not quite like the distance in her voice.

Mac continued to stare vacantly out the window into the darkness of the Washington night. Somewhere beyond the black, vacant windows of the brownstones across the street and the blocks of buildings between, she knew that the Washington Monument speared the night sky, the floodlights at its base illuminating it like an alabaster sword. But she couldn't see it from here. She couldn't see much of anything –except for the shuttered look on Clay's face when she had told him about the Zhukov case.

"When I talked to Clay about it this afternoon, I asked him if the Company was involved."

"What did he say?"

Mac was silent for a long moment. In the faint glow of the lamplight, Bobbie caught the glint of a tear as it trailed down her cheek. When at last she spoke, her voice was steady, but the words were tense and tightly wound.

"He lied to me, Bobbie," she said softly. "The son of a bitch lied to me."

And then, suddenly, surprisingly, she seemed to collapse. The tears were so swift and unexpected, that Bobbie was momentarily at a loss. Uncertainly, she rose from her chair and approached Sarah. She reached out and tentatively stroked her hair. When she wasn't rebuffed, she dropped to her knees and embraced the sobbing woman. She'd never been very good at this, but she somehow managed to mumble a few soothing words as she rocked them gently back and forth. Pressing her head tightly to Sarah's, she glanced over the shaking shoulder to the credenza with it's collection of pictures. This time, her eye fell on one lone photograph, shoved to the back against the wall. She stared hard for a long moment into the clear blue gaze of Harmon Rabb Jr.

_'What in the hell happened to you Harm?'_ She wondered bitterly. '_And what in God's name does Clay have to do with it?'_

***

_Ten years earlier…_

May 16th, 2011

Seoul, South Korea

            He'd never been to Korea before, but it was just about like any of the other cities he'd visited during this most recent posting to Asia. There were the same dingy, rain slick streets, the same blaring cacophony of voices and music and traffic, and the same overpowering smells of exotic foods and unwashed bodies that tantalized his taste buds as much as it turned his stomach. What's more, he realized as he exited his hotel and plunged into the crowded side-walk, there were the same thin-faced street kids looking to make a buck.

            He'd taken no more than a few steps before he felt a slight tug at his clothing that instinctively had him reaching for where his wallet would have been, had he bothered to carry it with him. He looked down to see a boy of perhaps thirteen or fourteen years of age tugging at his jacket.

            "You need guide?" the boy asked in fairly understandable English. "I take you. I speak English. I speak good. I show you city. I find you good time."

            His first instinct was to refuse, but the fact of the matter was that he really wasn't sure of where in the hell he was going in the first place, and he'd likely need more directions before he got there. Besides, there was something about the kid that he couldn't help but like.

            He stared into the slim brown face for a moment, sizing up the potential employee. The kid possessed a streetwise intelligence to be sure, but something in the dark, wide-set eyes suggested that he really wouldn't be a bad kid if someone would take the time to clean him up and feed him a meal or two. He toyed with the idea of being that someone.

            "How much?"

            "Fifty dollars …American."

            He snorted. "Do I look like Donald Trump?"

            "Who Donald Trump?" the boy asked.

            "A really rich guy," he said dryly. "—Twenty dollars American."

            It was the kid's turn to scowl. "Do I look like schmuck to you?"  
            "All right," he countered. "Thirty dollars and I buy you dinner."

            The boy considered this for a moment. "OK Joe."

            He gave the kid half the money and the name of the place that he was seeking. The boy nodded and darted into the street.

            "I get us cab," the kid called excitedly over his shoulder.

            Which was how, twenty minutes later, he found himself standing on the curb before a hole-in-the-wall internet café on the neon lit street of down-town Seoul. He handed the kid another bill.

            "Stay with the cab," he instructed. "When I come back out we'll go get some food."  
            Pausing to log in at the front counter, he threaded his way through the tables and kiosks filled with rows of computer work stations and packed with a wide variety of internet junkies. He was surprised to note that a fair number of the clientele was European, with a few Americans and Australians thrown in for good measure. There was, however, only one American in particular that he was interested in: the man he had been sent to meet. –Whoever that was.

            All he really knew was that the man was posing as a photo journalist. He scanned the room, looking for the blue camera bag and then stopped, feeling the familiar pang of resignation as he realized exactly who his contact was.

            He should have known.

            He let out a careful breath as he approached the man and took a seat at the empty terminal next to him. "Webb," he said softly under his breath in a tone that hovered somewhere between greeting and mere acknowledgement.

            "Rabb," Webb returned, his voice just as even. His eyes never strayed from the flat, liquid crystal screen before him.

            "It's been a long time," Harm murmured as he logged into the dummy email account he had set up before leaving the states.

            "Five years, eight months and …ten days," Webb said under his breath, "But who's counting?"

            Rabb's stomach clenched. God, he was even starting to sound like her. He waited as the computer downloaded his email from the server and the disgustingly pleasant female voice announced:

            "You've got mail."

            "Open the one marked 'Birthday wishes,'" Clay instructed, "and tell me what you see."

            Harm clicked on the email, which included a picture attachment and swore softly under his breath as he recognized the familiar airframe of a Navy P-3, surrounded by guards that were most certainly not Americans. This was followed by a series of shots taken inside the plane. The photos were grainy and of poor quality, but it was enough for Harm to be sure of what he was looking at. In one picture, several technicians in Chinese army uniforms were working diligently at a computer panel.

            He sighed and closed the email. It wasn't exactly news. Hell, he'd worked the case himself with Admiral Boone, back when he'd still been assigned to JAG. He didn't dare look at Webb, so he scowled at the monitor instead. "Don't you guys ever bother to read the newspaper? This is old news, Clay. We knew back when they grounded our bird that they were gonna go through it for everything they could get. How old are these pictures anyway? –Eight? Ten years old?"

            "They were taken last night."

            This time, Harm could not help but to look at Clay in disbelief. He recovered quickly and forced himself to look at the computer screen again. Quickly, he reopened the email. "Shit! You mean to tell me they grounded another one of ours?"

            "Worse," Clay muttered, "They built one of their own."

            Harm studied the photographs more carefully. Now that he was really looking at them, he was starting to notice small differences. The plane wasn't actually a P-3, but the airframe of a similarly constructed commercial airliner that had been modified for the purpose. And though the equipment in the interior shots was very familiar, it wasn't exact. 

            "I suppose it was only a matter of time," Harm said. "When Boone and I went to negotiate for the release of the flight crew, they had technicians crawling all over it. He said at the time that the worst of the damage had already been done.

            "He was right," Clay said tersely. "They got enough to build this, and it goes operational in three days. Our man on the inside says that the Chinese are planning to test it in North Korea. You need to let your people know. –If we do face off against the North Koreans, the Chinese are going to know every move we make."

            "And they'll probably tell their little buddies," Harm added darkly.

            Clay merely nodded.

            "Christ," Harm breathed. "We'll have two battle groups completely exposed."

            "Exactly," Clay said, "Which is why I requested a meet with someone familiar with the situation. I need someone who can tell me where this thing is vulnerable. We need to take it out before it ever gets in the air."

            Harm risked a sideways glance out of the corner of his eye. "You're going in yourself? Isn't that a little chancy? –You don't exactly blend."

            Clay, in typical fashion, answered the question by avoiding it. "I have to have the information by tomorrow morning."

            "You'll have it tonight," Harm promised. 

            "Fair enough," Clay said.

            Harm nodded and deleted the email Clay had sent him. He really didn't want to ask, but knew if he didn't that Webb wouldn't offer, either.

            "How's Mac?"  
            There was a moment's hesitation. It was still uncomfortable ground for both of them. "She's good," Clay responded, lifting his shoulder in a small shrug. "Still at JAG. –She's a Judge now, and she loves it. Admiral Sebring seems to be making a smooth transition as the new JAG, and Bud and Tiner are going at it in the courtroom." Webb's mouth quirked, "Apparently Bud lost his first case to Tiner last week. Sarah said it wasn't pretty."

            Harm grinned. "I'll bet." He paused, and then worked up the nerve to ask, "And how's Penny?"

            Clay smiled faintly. "She's four and she's beautiful. –Just like her mother."

            "I'll bet," Harm said softly, somehow managing to force the words past the hollow ache in his chest.

            "Want to see a picture?"

            Rabb shot another look at the man next to him, wanting to see the expression that went with that particular tone of voice. There had been something almost …shy… about the question.

            "Sure," Harm said.

            Webb smiled and tipped his head slightly towards Harm's monitor. "Hang on," he said, picking up his mouse and selecting a file from his screen. "Don't log out yet."

            After a moment, another email appeared in Harm's in-box. He clicked on it. This time, instead of grainy photographs of a Chinese spy plane, it was a crystal clear image of Mac, sitting in a rope swing with a grinning little girl in her lap. He was silent for a long moment as he studied the picture. That could have been his, he thought --if he hadn't been such a damned fool.

            "She's got Mac's eyes," he said softly.

            "Yeah," Clay breathed, and Rabb could tell from the longing in the word that Webb was staring at the same image on his own monitor.

            "—And your nose," Harm added, "Poor kid."

            Clay risked an irritated glance from the corner of his eye. "It wasn't that bad until I started running with the likes of you."

            "How long since you've seen them?"

            Webb's hand moved quickly over the mouse, closing the file. "Too long," he said in clipped tones. "But I finish this job and that will all change. I've been promised permanent assignment to DC as soon as this is over. I told Kershaw I'm done globe-trotting –one way or the other."

            Harm was surprised. "You actually threatened to quit?"

            Webb flashed a grim smile. "It's not like I'm in this for the money, Harm. I've done my share. –And I'm not going to make the same mistake my father did. I'd actually like to see my kid grow up."

            Webb logged out of his terminal and bent to collect his camera bag. Harm continued to stare at the picture on the screen.

            "You're a lucky man, Clay."

            He felt Webb's gaze land on him for a moment longer than was safe, considering the circumstances.

            "I know," Webb said, and vanished into the crowded street.


	10. Chapter 10

**Chapter Ten**

GALINDEZ RESIDENCE

ARLINGTON, VIRGINIA

22:00 ZULU

            The insistent bleating of his cell phone roused Victor Galindez from a sound sleep and a particularly pleasant dream. Paulina stirred slightly in his arms, muttering softly. He smiled. Not all of it had been a dream, thank God. 

            He pressed a kiss against her bare shoulder and savored the whisper of her warm, satin skin against his own as he reached over her to grab for the phone. He flipped open the case and paused to steal another kiss against her neck. A month away from home was too damned long, but the welcome back party had been worth it. They'd gone to bed at three o'clock and really hadn't been vertical since. He stabbed at the call button fully intending to tell whoever the hell it was to buzz off. Then maybe he'd wake up Paulina and they'd…

            "Victor?" The crisp, sharp voice fairly crackled from the phone and he stared in horror at the tiny digital screen. A pale, pinched face, framed by wisps of platinum blonde hair stared back at him, the narrow lips compressed into a thin line. Recognition dawned and he swore and scrambled for the sheets, stabbing at the privacy button as he did so. Jesus! It was Catherine Gale. And she was pissed.

            One of the analysts lent to his division from the Counter Terrorism Unit had recently described her as "cold enough to freeze the balls off a snow-man." At the time, he'd thought it a little harsh and had reprimanded the agent. But now, sitting here in his bed, naked and …cringing, he could attest to the validity of the statement.

            "Catherine!" He said, pressing the phone tightly to his ear. "What can I do for you?"

 He leaned over the edge of the bed and groped around for his boxer shorts, wondering momentarily about the particular angle the phone's tiny camera had caught when he'd answered the call. The last damned thing he needed right now was for the Agency's Chief Counsel to know she'd caught him with his pants down. –Hell, she'd caught him with his pants off. He stepped back into his boxers and reached into a dresser drawer for a clean T-shirt.

"You're working pretty late for a holiday weekend."

"You can quit trying to butter me up, Victor," Gale said tightly. "And if you want to start out on my good side, you'll explain to me exactly why the Navy is tapping us for information regarding Harmon Rabb's death."

"I was told the boss was handling it," Victor said uneasily. 

Shit. He really should have talked to Clay about this some more. –At least gotten some direction about how he was supposed to handle the questions, but he hadn't. He'd been too goddamned busy telling Webb how to run his personal life, when he should have been asking how he wanted this handled at the office. Now Gale had caught him bare-assed and flat-footed and he didn't know what in the hell he was supposed to tell her.

"Wrong answer, Vic," Catherine growled. "That bureaucratic chain of command crap won't wash with me. I wrote the goddamned book on it! –Look, I was willing to give you the benefit of the doubt because I know you've been out of the country, but this is your one chance to be straight with me …and I suggest you do it, because right now I could be the only thing standing between you and a hearing before the intelligence oversight committee!"

Her voice shrilled out of the phone at him, hurting his ear drum. "Easy, Catherine!" he hissed.

"Don't tell me to take it easy!" She snapped. "Both you and Webb are up to your necks in this! I am not going to stand before a congressional committee and be made to look like a fool again! –I'll let the two of you rot in Federal prison, first."

Galindez closed his eyes and pinched the bridge of his nose. Damn. It was worse than he'd realized. The Navy JAGs must be hammering at her pretty hard for her to come unglued like this. –It shouldn't have been a surprise. Knowing Mac and Bud and Bobbie, they were probably leaning pretty hard on the Navy JAG, too.

"Hang on, Catherine" he said uneasily, and cast a look back to the bed. Paulina was still asleep. He lowered his voice. "I'm not exactly in a place where I can talk about this right now. –Can I meet you somewhere?"

She named a location.

"All right," he said. "I'll see you in thirty minutes."

As Victor hurriedly threw on a pair of jeans and a jacket and found his car keys, he reminded himself that Catherine had good reason to be pissed. She'd gone to bat for both him and Webb more than once over the years and she had to be feeling cornered by this situation. She was caught between their friendship and her duty to protect the reputation of the Agency. Of course, there was never any question as to where she would stand. The Agency came first, no matter what. If there was even the slightest hint of wrong doing, she wouldn't hesitate to turn them over to the committee, and he wouldn't blame her a bit. Still, it was a shitty position to put her in, and he hated that it had come to this.

He couldn't blame her for being afraid of the committee. He well remembered the last time she'd been left hanging out to dry, when Merrill Watts had been asked to step down. The failures to predict the events of 9/11 and the secondary round of terrorist attacks that had occurred three years later had led to a series of hearings and investigations by the Intelligence Oversight Committee. What resulted was a brutally public laundering of organizations and people who were accustomed to living their lives beneath a cloak of secrecy. It had been a hellish experience for everyone involved. Watts had been advised not to talk to anyone outside of the committee, and Kershaw had wisely chosen to blend into the background whenever possible. As a result, Catherine had been pushed front and center as one of the main spokespersons for the Agency, and she had taken the brunt of the media flak.

Day by day, as the committee investigation revealed the full extent of the gross incompetence that had flourished in the Agency under Watts' regime, Catherine had been asked to cover for the DCI with no explanation or justification of why she should do so. The experience had left her both mentally and physically exhausted and could very well have ended her career. It was only because of Kershaw that she had managed to stay on board. The Puppet Master might put you through hell while he was yanking at your strings, but if you danced well enough for him, he took care of you afterwards. He could be a cold, calculating, double-crossing son of a bitch, but Harrison Kershaw had always taken care of his own.

Still, he had sensed the disappointment radiating from her during their brief phone conversation. She had expected better of him and Webb, and they had disappointed her. He felt the guilt begin to press down on him as he turned his black Nissan Altima down the George Washington Parkway towards the heart of the city. The fact of the matter was that he liked and respected Catherine Gale, and not telling her the truth made him feel like a worm.

It was true that she could be the cold and brittle woman that so many people took her for, but like Webb's snide, arrogant exterior, he knew that it was a façade that barely scratched the surface. Somewhere beneath that icy veneer was actually a very sweet, caring, and pretty woman. She could be smart and funny and feisty as hell, but there was a sensitive side to her that she rarely revealed inside the Agency's cool gray halls. She might have a voice that could slice you up like a pack of razor blades, but he knew that behind those cool gray eyes was a tender soul, easily wounded. She reminded him of a tiny, fluffy kitten, hissing and spitting and showing its claws: defensive, yet vulnerable. He'd always had to fight the urge to protect her, knowing she'd bust his kneecaps if he tried. It was just the odd sort of effect she had upon you, once you got to know her. –Even Webb had not been entirely immune to it.

He still vividly remembered the first time he'd ever met the Company's legal top gun. That had been back in the old days, when he was just finding his way in the Company, and Clay was trying to regain the ground he'd lost after his exile to South America. It had been at a State Department banquet, the first of many ritzy social functions he'd had to endure on behalf of the agency. He and Webb and a few other select agents and Company officials had been tapped to attend for the purposes of schmoozing senators to support the Agency's latest budget request with warnings of danger and woe from third-world countries and a little old fashioned James Bond charm.

She'd been sitting by herself at a table for six. There was something about her delicate figure and solitary expression that had caught his attention. With her small pixie face and wide gray eyes framed by delicate blonde hair, she reminded him of a lost little waif, playing Cinderella in her mother's cocktail dress and high heels. He remembered thinking it odd that such a pretty woman should still be sitting alone when all the other tables were filling up so rapidly.

"Who's that?" he had asked Artie Matthews, a fellow agent from the Berlin station.

Matthews, a tall, blonde, good-looking California jock whom Galindez was starting to suspect just might be an asshole, had spotted her and sneered with distaste.

"Catherine Gale. She's Chief Counsel for the Company," Matthews informed him, and paused to take another swig of his bourbon. "If you're thinking about getting it on with the ice pussy, Victor my boy, I'd advise you to forget it."

Galindez didn't know exactly how much of the booze Matthews had had, but it was enough that his voice was starting to carry. He could see the attorney stiffen slightly, and knew that she had overheard.

Galindez tamped down the small flame of his anger and took sip of his soda. He didn't know Matthews, he reminded himself, and he didn't know Gale. "I take it you're not a fan," he said mildly.

"I can't stand her," Matthews affirmed, his voice still too loud. "She's a ball-breaking bitch."

 "Really?" the close and unexpected proximity of Clayton Webb's voice startled both of them and Galindez looked down to find the agent standing at his side.  "Personally," Webb said, "I like Catherine very much."

Webb looked cool and casual in his Armani tux. –So much so that Galindez suddenly felt like a bumpkin standing beside him in his hundred and fifty dollar rental. Webb was holding a glass of champagne and his bow tie had been loosened slightly, giving anyone who looked at him the impression that he was somewhat in his cups. His voice, like Matthews, was louder than necessary, and crisp enough to be clearly understood from several feet away. However, Victor recognized the hard glint in the muddy green eyes and knew that Webb was far from drunk.

Matthews stared at him, dumbfounded. "Gale? Are you kidding me?"

Webb took another sip of his champagne, studying Catherine thoughtfully over the rim of his glass. "No," he said, his voice succinct. "She's a shrewd negotiator and a damned good lawyer. I've always found Catherine to possess many admirable qualities; including the one the Agency needs the most."

"And just what would that be?" Matthews asked belligerently. The rumble of conversation had died down around them, and Victor could see by the tense set of the thin shoulders that the topic of their debate was listening to every word.

Webb smiled ruthlessly. "She's a ball-breaking bitch."

There were small gasps of muffled laughter as Matthews stomped away. Clay had caught Victor's eye and tilted his head in the direction of the empty table. Hesitantly, he had followed Webb through the parting crowd to the place where the lone woman sat, cold and elegant and ramrod straight.

"May we join you?" Webb asked pleasantly, setting down his drink and pulling out a chair on Catherine's right. Victor mirrored the action, taking up a position on her left.

Her gaze bounced off of his before returning to Webb. "If you're not afraid of sitting with a ball-breaking bitch," there was an attempt at levity in her tone, but her voice was thin and taut.

Webb quirked a small smile. "Doesn't bother me," he said. "Mine are already broken. The old man saw to that."

"I heard," Catherine said and took a tiny sip of her white wine. "I'd say that I was sorry for you, but you're a big boy. You knew the rules."

"I did," Webb agreed, "and I broke them anyway, and now here I stand, duly humbled and chastened."

Catherine sighed. "Sit down, Webb." She shot a look at Galindez. "What about you? –Afraid I'll bite?"

Victor smiled and pulled out his chair. "I think I'll risk it," he said.

Webb had brusquely made the introductions. "Victor's a new recruit," he explained, settling himself into his chair.

"Pleased to meet you, ma'am." Victor said, offering Catherine his hand.

Her tiny fingers accepted it in a grasp that surprisingly firm. "He's so polite," she observed to Webb. "—I give him six months. The water cooler crowd will have him for breakfast."

"He's tougher than he looks," Webb said dismissively. "And he's got a decent right cross. I think he can hold his own."

Webb and Gale chatted pleasantly for several minutes. Galindez had observed them quietly, somewhat intrigued as he tried to pin down the exact nature of their relationship. Obviously they knew each other, but there seemed to be a certain testing of the waters taking place, and he wondered if they had ever actually socialized before. Somehow he doubted it. It was difficult not to stare at them openly. There was something fascinating about watching two die-hard introverts carefully trying to make …friends.

So caught up were they in their conversation, that none of them had noticed when the rugged, distinguished looking man with the fading blonde hair had approached them and dropped a gentle hand on Catherine's shoulder. Harrison Kershaw had gazed down at her with an unreadable look in his dark blue eyes.

"So, Catherine …I am given to understand that Mr. Webb has granted you a triple-B classification?"

Christ, Galindez had thought, the Deputy Director himself. –Even Webb looked decidedly uncomfortable. Catherine Gale, however, merely smiled and presented her cheek for Kershaw to kiss. "That's what he told half the room," she said pleasantly.

"Really…" Kershaw's gaze traveled to Webb and settled there for an interminably long moment. Was he imagining it, or did Webb actually look nervous?

"So what do you think, sir?" Catherine asked lightly. "Am I?"

Kershaw smiled broadly. "Catherine, my dear, I wouldn't have hired you if you weren't."

Looking back on it now, Victor wondered if that hadn't been the beginning of it. Even then, as Kershaw's glance had traveled briefly from Gale to Webb to himself, he had felt as though he and Webb were somehow being assessed and measured. That night had been the beginning of not only a longstanding friendship with Catherine Gale, but a recruitment of a sort. None of them had known it then, but Harrison Kershaw had been a man on a mission. That mission, of course was to depose Merrill Watts and salvage the Agency from self-implosion, using the three of them as the unwitting instruments of his plan.

            That simple round of social sparring had set each of them down a path which had led them to places they had never imagined, nor wanted to go. But Kershaw had sent them down it just the same, and it was that path that had led them here.

Had they known then what they knew now, he was fairly certain they never would have done it. Catherine had gone through hell during the Senate investigation hearings, and he and Clay had spent the better part of seven years traveling the globe doing Kershaw's silent bidding, ferreting out leaks …and plugging them. By the time they were done, they'd rebuilt the Company from the inside out, bureau by bureau, station by station, from one end of the world to the other. He knew the Company was better for it and maybe the world as well, but he couldn't help but feel that they'd lost something of themselves along the way. He knew it, Webb knew it, and if Catherine didn't know it by now, she was certainly going to find out soon enough.

He parked his car along Constitution Avenue, not far from the corner of the Vietnam Memorial, and locked it. Entering the footpath that cut along the edge of the Mall, he cut past the corner that descended into the depths of the black granite wall inscribed with the names of the Vietnam dead. On any other night, he might have taken it, for it was a more direct route to his ultimate destination, but he could not quite bring himself to tread that path tonight. Too many ghosts lurked there. –Or rather, only one, but it was a specter he could not quite bring himself to meet.

He walked a little farther until he came to the second footpath that ran the length of the Mall between the reflecting pool and Constitution Gardens. Glancing to make sure that he was still alone, he turned right, towards the Potomac and the end of the West end of the Mall. He hurried past the statuary garden where the Vietnam nurses waited 'til eternity for the chopper that would carry their dead and dying to salvation, and the three hardened soldiers, tired and sweaty from the heat of the battle, braced their M-16's across their shoulder's and stared down upon him with accusing eyes. They might have left their comrades behind, but at least they had never done it intentionally.

It was almost a relief when he exited the ancient grove of trees and set foot on the open street at the West edge of the Mall. Turning South, he began to scan the nearly deserted streets until at last his eye fell upon the silver BMW, parked not far from the Lincoln Memorial. The parking lights flashed once and he wasted no time in cutting across the street and making his way towards the car. Catherine Gale climbed out of the car as he approached, and locked it with a quick stab of the remote in her hand. She met him in the middle of the deserted street.

He cast an eye towards the Lincoln Memorial. A soft golden light spilled out from behind the tall Grecian pillars, illuminating the gigantic figure of Lincoln, solemn and contemplative, that resided within.

"I'm surprised you wanted to meet here," he said.

"I thought it appropriate," she said coolly, "not to mention symbolic. –Honest Abe and all that."

"Isn't it a little clichéd?"

"Apparently, so is the truth," she said tightly. "Walk with me. It's a nice night, and I just got the car washed. –I'd hate for you to dirty it with the line of bull you're about to feed me."

"Catherine…" He groaned, following after her as she stalked the rest of the way across the street, "It's not like that."

"Then why don't you tell me what it is like, Victor?" she muttered, "God knows it would be more than I've gotten out of Clay."

He rubbed tiredly at the back of his neck. "Look," he said irritably. "I haven't even been back in the country for twenty-four hours yet. I'm not even sure I know what is going on. Why don't you bring me up to speed with where things are at, and then we'll see about filling in the blanks."

She gawked at him in disbelief. "As far as I'm concerned, this whole case is nothing but blanks. That's the problem!"

He fixed her with a reproving look and finally she sighed and relented. "All right," she said at last, "I'll tell you what has happened, and what I have managed to find out, but damn it, Galindez, you'd better not be stalling me. –I expect some quid pro quo."

Actually, stalling was exactly what he intended to do, but he somehow managed to nod sincerely.

Catherine stopped and bent her head, shoving her hands deep into the pockets of her gray overcoat as she studied the tips of her sensible black pumps and mentally organized her thoughts.

"Shortly after you left for Israel, I received a request from the Navy JAG for information regarding the circumstances surrounding the death of one Captain Harmon Rabb Jr." She looked up into his face, her clear gray eyes locking with his. "You can imagine my surprise, considering that I had been given to understand he was working out of Australia for Naval Intelligence at the time."

She shrugged. "So I called the JAG and asked him if there hadn't been some mistake. I'd been to Harm's funeral. Everyone had been told that he'd been killed in a small plane crash. Why were they coming to the agency for information? –We had nothing to do with it …or so I thought."

She scowled. "Admiral Leighton was good enough to inform me that according to the Navy's records, that wasn't exactly the case. Apparently Rabb's last assignment before his death had been to fly to Seoul to meet with a CIA operative regarding stolen American technology that could be used against us. He was to pass information to our people and return to Sydney. He went to Seoul. He delivered the requested information. He never came back. When he did finally show up, it was in a military casket flown in from the American Embassy with "top secret" stamped all over it and some bizarre story from the State Department attaché in Seoul about a tragic accident. –It's a small wonder that they decided to drop this hot potato on our doorstep."  
            "Yeah, but why bring it up now?" Victor sighed. "It's been ten years, for Christ's sake." He was particularly proud of the delivery of that line. He thought he had used just the right amount of bewilderment.

Catherine shrugged. "It seems Rabb's brother never bought the story. Apparently he's been hounding the Navy for years, to no avail. He couldn't do a whole lot about it before, since he's a Russian citizen and lives abroad, but apparently his fortunes have changed in recent years. He started up a small air transport company in the Ukraine that has really taken off in their new capitalist economy. He finally has made enough money that he could afford to travel here, and retain a law firm here in the states."

"Mackenzie, Latham and Roberts," Victor sighed.

Catherine's eyes narrowed. "So you did read my memo," she accused.

"I glanced at it briefly," he admitted.

She shook her head. "Then I don't have to tell you how bad this is. This could get ugly, Victor."

_It already has,_ he thought, but he didn't tell her that. "So where does it stand now?" he asked.

She tilted her chin to look up at him defiantly. "I took the information Leighton gave me and ran a records check for Rabb's name. They confirmed that Rabb was scheduled to meet with one of our teams in Seoul the week before he died. –I'm not sure I was even surprised when I saw exactly whose case he'd been called in to consult on."

"It wasn't intentional," Galindez said quickly. "In fact, if Clay had known who they were sending, he'd have requested someone else."

"Maybe he should have anyway," Catherine said bitterly. "Then he wouldn't have had to go to all this effort to avoid my phone calls." She shot him a narrow look. "Frankly I'm surprised you're here at all. What happened? Did you forget to check your caller ID?"

_Yes,_ he thought, while somehow managing to paste a wounded look across his face. "Come on, Catherine," he protested. "You know me better than that."

God, he really had been doing this too long. When had he become such a lying son of a bitch?

"I thought I did," she said, and he caught the note of sadness in her voice. He was getting to her.

He shook his head and raked a hand through his hair in exasperation. "Damn it, Cath! You're not even bothering to give me the benefit of the doubt! You had me tried and convicted before I ever even picked up the damned phone. What do I have to do to show you I'm not the bad guy here?"

"Tell me what happened to Rabb."

"I can't."  
            "Can't? –Or won't?" She threw up her hands. "Forget it," she said angrily. "I don't know why I even bothered!"

He bit back a curse. "Look, Catherine… I'm not trying to shut you out or set you up here. I wouldn't do that. –Neither would Clay. This is just…"

"What?"

He sighed. "Complicated," he said at last.

She scowled at him in disgust. "Complicated? –That's all you have to say for yourself? It's complicated!? –Damn it, Victor!" she hissed, "Both you and Webb are playing with fire here! The Agency isn't the same organization it was twenty years ago. You can't use it like your own personal litter box! After the 9/11 fiasco and the Watts scandal we became _accountable_ for our actions! 'Need to Know' and 'in the interests of national security' just doesn't cut it any more."

She sighed and shook her head. "If this goes to Oversight, I can't help you." She started to turn away.

"Catherine! –Wait!" he caught her by the arm, turning her back to face him.

"It's not what you think," he said at last. "What happened to Rabb had nothing to do with the Agency."

She folded her arms across her chest. "And just what did happen to Rabb?" she demanded.

He shifted uncomfortably. "Look, it's really not my place to say, but I can tell you this much: Whatever Rabb was doing when he died, he was doing it on his own –without the knowledge or consent of either the Navy or the CIA. Yeah, he worked with us in Seoul. He got Clay the information we needed and our mission was successfully concluded.  –_Before Rabb dropped out of contact with his superiors."_

"And all of our records will show that? –Sealed or otherwise?"

Victor nodded.

She relaxed slightly. "Then we're in the clear. Even if it goes to trial, there's nothing to indicate any wrongdoing on the part of the Agency."

"Absolutely."

He relaxed a bit himself. Perhaps he'd finally defused her enough to buy himself some time. He had to talk to Webb, --find out how he wanted to play this. After all, Catherine was right. If this ever became public, it could be both of their asses on the line.

"Of course," Catherine said craftily, "That still doesn't explain what Rabb was doing flying around the mountains of South Korea in a private plane. –Or why his body arrived back at Pearl signed, sealed and delivered by the State Department with two Navy intelligence officers and one of Harry Kershaw's fair-haired boys along for the ride, now does it?"

Shit. She knew. He should have known. She had been really pissed on the phone, and he should have known that she wouldn't have let him get off so easily. It was one of Catherine's favorite tactics. She'd let you think you were going to get away with it, give you a glimmer of light at the end of the tunnel. –And then she'd hit you with the train.

To his credit, he didn't blink. Instead, he managed an indifferent shrug. "Nothing that mysterious about it," he said. "I was still in the neighborhood. I'd served with the Captain. I considered him a good friend. I thought it was the least I could do."

She arched an eyebrow in disbelief. "That's your story?"

He scowled at her in irritation. "It's the truth, Catherine." –And it was. It just wasn't all of it.

Her gray eyes searched his, and he read the disappointment in them. For all that she didn't know, she somehow had managed to dig up enough to realize that she shouldn't believe him, no matter how much she might want to.

"There's more to it than that," she insisted. "You and I both know damned well that that this whole thing stinks. The deeper Roberts and Mackenzie dig, the fishier it gets. –And they haven't even gotten to the really good stuff yet." She drew in a ragged sigh. "Who are you covering for? Is it Webb?"

He didn't answer her. He didn't dare.

"It is, isn't it?" She whispered.

He turned away. "I think this conversation is over."

This time it was she who pulled him back, her small hand clamping tightly around his wrist. "Tell me, Victor" she pleaded, "What happened out there?"

He looked down at her hand, clenched about his wrist, and slowly removed it. He looked into the soft gray eyes that begged him for the truth.

"I'm sorry, Catherine," he said quietly, and turned and walked away.

Back in the Altima, he locked the doors and closed his eyes and leaned his head back against the headrest. He rested his hands on the padded leather of the steering wheel. They were shaking. He drew a deep breath and expelled it. He couldn't believe he had so badly misjudged the entire situation. –Oversight? This had gotten completely out of hand. Hell, it was no wonder Clay was in the hospital. Another round like that and he'd see him his heart attack and raise him a stroke.

 It was stupid how such a small, simple lie, meant to bring closure and comfort, could fester and boil over the years into something so …disastrous. But maybe that was the problem, he thought. Small and simple and well-intentioned though it might have been, it had still been a lie. He had stood beside Clay at Harmon Rabb's funeral and watched the large crowd of mourners bury a body that was not Harmon Rabb.

There were days that he still wondered what might have happened if they had simply told the truth. But they hadn't. He'd told Clay, back in the hospital, that in light of the circumstances, it wasn't his place. That wasn't entirely true. The fact of the matter was he had left it up to Webb because he hadn't had the guts to do it. The trouble was Clay hadn't had the nerve, either. He supposed that he couldn't really blame him. Of the two of them, Webb had had the most to lose.  –And, while he was being perfectly honest with himself, he might as well admit that they both had been too ashamed. Himself for what he had not done …and Clay for what he had.

Catherine had accused him of covering for Webb. He supposed he could see how she had come to that conclusion. Still, there were times when he really wasn't sure who was covering for whom. Of the two of them, he often wondered if he wasn't the one who was more to blame. Clay really hadn't done any more than pick up the pieces of a disastrous situation and sweep them under the rug. It was his fault that Rabb was dead. After all, he was the one who had brought him into it.

***

_(Ten years earlier…)_

24 MAY 2011

SEOUL, SOUTH KOREA

            Webb was three days late. Victor Galindez sat uneasily in his booth in the small, seedy restaurant where they had arranged to meet and checked the messages on his palm pilot for the seventh time that day. There was nothing from Dante. Not a goddamned thing. Something was wrong. He could feel it.

            As far as they knew, the op had gone according to plan. He had arranged for the money and the explosives to be smuggled in through a Bangkok arms dealer. Clay had gone into China posing as a Dutch photographer working freelance for National Geographic, and had intended to slip the information to their North Korean asset inside a canister of film. He must have made the exchange, for there could be no doubt that the man had done the job.

            The plane had crashed 'inexplicably' on its third test flight and gone up in a huge fireball somewhere in the remote Western mountain ranges. Surveillance posts in Beijing indicated that the Chinese were pissed –and suspicious—but they had as of yet no proof of sabotage. Everything had played out beautifully. 

Except that Webb was three days late.

The slim Korean woman who had waited on him returned with a steaming pot of tea and bent to refill his bowl, even though it was still hot and nearly full. Bending over his table, she spoke softly so as not to be overheard.

"The man you are looking for, he has just come in. I put him at a table near the kitchen as you instructed."

Victor thanked her softly in his rudimentary Korean and slid a few bills beneath his plate of untouched noodles. He waited a moment as she picked up the plate and the bills and departed. Then he rose from the table and sauntered towards the kitchen.

He stunned Benny Kwan with a lightning blow to the head as he passed, then grabbed the man by the shirt collar and drug him through the grease stained swinging doors of the kitchen. Kwan tried for a kick, but Galindez blocked it, sweeping the smaller man's feet from under him. Reaching down, he grabbed Kwan by the scruff of the neck and slammed him face first into the wall, jarring the large steel woks that hung upon it with an awful clatter.

"Where is he?" Galindez demanded, shaking the smaller man like a terrier worrying a rat. "Where is he, Benny? –And don't give me any bullshit, you slimy little prick, or I'll gut you and roast you and serve you on a stick out in the street like the monkeys and dogs."

"I don't know!" Kwan gasped, "I don't know! –I swear to God!"

Galindez kneed him in the groin, causing Kwan to double up in pain.

"A lying little shit like you doesn't believe in God, Benny. And I don't believe you. You went out with him, and you were supposed to bring him back! –Now where in the hell is he?"

"I don't know," Kwan whined. His breath was coming in wheezing sobs. "I don't know! He didn't make it!"

Victor felt the cold slither of dread work its way down his spine to settle in the pit of his stomach, but he didn't dare acknowledge it. He leaned on Benny harder.

"Is he dead?" he asked, "Did they kill him?"

Benny shook his head. He was sobbing openly now. "No. –I don't know. He didn't make it out. They got him. –I don't know where they took him…

"They surprised us," Kwan gasped, "just as we were trying to come back across the river. They shot him –in the leg I think—I didn't see. I only barely got away."

Victor slammed Benny up against the wall again. "Who got him, Benny? The Army? The Border Patrol?"

"No," Benny gasped. "It was the Secret Police."

Christ. Galindez released the man, letting him fall to the floor in a heap. --The North Korean Secret Police. It might have been better if Webb had been dead.

He had contacted the Seoul Station Chief immediately, and learned through their counterparts in the State Department that there were no reports of any journalists being openly detained by the North Koreans. –Not that that helped a lot, Victor thought. For one thing, Clay's cover was Dutch, not American. And for another, if the North Koreans were detaining any European prisoners, they sure as hell weren't going to be very likely to come right out and announce it.

He also had the presence of mind to call the Beijing Station Chief and give him a run down of the latest developments on the odd chance that if the North Koreans thought they had an American spy in custody, they would be sure to hold it up to the Chinese as a sign they were doing their part to find out what had happened to China's very expensive, P-3 replica.

Finally, and reluctantly, he called Washington.

The response was exactly what he had expected. –Even after he had managed to argue his way up through the chain of command to the desk of the Deputy Director himself.

"The op is a success and we have plausible deniability." Harrison Kershaw's tone had been brisk and uncompromising. "We won't if we keep digging after a lost photojournalist."

"I want to go after him."

"This isn't the Marine Corps, Mr. Galindez." Kershaw said sharply. "Webb knew the risks, and he took them. It's likely a waste of time any way. If the North Koreans haven't already done the job by now, he's probably already done it for them. He knows we won't come after him."

_But he knows I'll come after him,_ Galindez thought, but he knew it was useless to argue with the Deputy Director.

Kershaw sighed. "I'll see about contacting his family."

"No!" Galindez said sharply, and then suddenly remembered exactly who he was speaking to. "Excuse me sir, I'm sorry. –But I'd just… I'd rather tell them myself, if that's all right. I think it would be better coming from me."

There was a long moment of silence.

"All right," Kershaw said. "I imagine the bad news will keep a little while longer. It will take you thirty six hours to get back here to D.C. I'll give you forty-eight. …Use them wisely, Mr. Galindez."

_Shit,_ Victor thought, _he knows. He knows what I'm going to do. It's his way of saying get my ass back to D.C. with the Agency's blessing or go it alone …and don't fuck up because nobody else is coming after me._

He had stood there a long moment in his hotel room with his hand still on the phone and his eyes on the empty suitcases in the closet. Going home was not an option. It never really had been. Even if he could have worked up the stomach to leave, he never could have stood to face Mac and tell her. Besides, Webb had gone back to save his neck once in a situation not too different from this one and damned near died because of it. He owed it to him –to them—to at least try. But he couldn't do it alone. 

Victor paced the room, his mind kicking into overdrive. Kershaw had made it plain that Agency resources were going to dry up from here on out. He needed intel. He needed back up. –And he could only think of one person who just might be near enough to help. 

Whether or not he would be willing, was another matter entirely.

***

"Who's this, your house boy?"

Galindez tossed an amused glance at the skinny kid that had opened the door of the hotel room.

"He would be if I had a house," Rabb said, and waved Victor towards a chair. "You've been working with Webb too long," he observed.

"What makes you say that?"

"You're starting to develop his sarcasm." Rabb peeled off a couple of bills and handed them to the kid. "Hey, Kim, why don't you go downstairs and see if you can find us a couple of cold beers, ok?"

"OK, Joe." The boy parroted, and fled with the money.

Galindez raised an eyebrow. "Isn't that what you call contributing to the delinquency of a minor?"

Harm chuckled. "You should be more worried about the kid contributing to the delinquency of me. My first night in town, he offered to fix me up with a stolen car, a hooker and my choice of recreational pharmaceuticals."

Galindez's brow arched higher. "You take him up on it?"

Rabb snorted. "I'm afraid to. The kid's better connected than half the mob bosses in Jersey."

"Speaking of connections…" Galindez prompted.

Harm nodded. "I found what you were looking for," he said.

He pulled an aluminum briefcase down from the top shelf of his closet and unlocked it, extracting several satellite images printed on glossy photo paper. 

"Based on what you got out of Webb's driver, I'd say odds are pretty good he's being held here." Rabb's finger swirled over a small cluster or rectangular dots that Victor vaguely recognized as huts and low buildings. "It's a prison camp located just outside of a village called Wol-song-ni. It's on the Taedong River, about forty miles north of the DMZ. The North Korean General in charge of that quadrant uses it as his headquarters, and the Secret Police carry out most of their interrogations there."

Rabb pulled out two more photos and a magnifying loop. "I pulled these down off of the DOD satellite archives last night. They were taken the same day Webb disappeared."

He handed Galindez the photos and the loop. "Look in the back of the Humvee," he instructed.

Galindez looked closely at the aerial photograph. "A camera bag," he said.

"Webb's camera bag," Rabb corrected. "I remember all of the stickers and press passes it had on it. It was one of the things I was told to look for to identify my 'contact' at the internet café."

Galindez looked up at Rabb. "So how do we get in?"

"We don't," Harm replied. "The place is locked up tighter than a drum. Even a Seal Team would have their work cut out for them. –Besides, even if we had the man power, it would cost a fortune to get the right equipment."

"I've got the fortune," Galindez said. "Or rather, I can get it."

"What?"

Galindez shrugged. "You know Webb. –He's not your average working stiff like the rest of us. In fact, he's a pretty shrewd investor. A few years ago he set us up with a private emergency fund –just in case the company left us hanging out to dry."

"How much?"

Galindez thought about it. "Not a huge amount, maybe a million dollars or so."

Harm let out a low whistle. He'd always known Webb came from old money, but he didn't realize he had quite that much in loose pocket change lying around. But on the other hand, Webb wasn't exactly the type to flaunt it, either.

Rabb considered the possibilities for a long moment. "There might be another way," he said.

Galindez raised a brow. "What do you mean?"

"From what I've seen of the intel on the North Koreans, they may shout communist propaganda from the rooftops, but they're just as interested in making money as the next guy. The Black Market runs rampant through there: drugs, guns, stolen merchandise… They'll deal in just about anything, --why not a man's freedom?"

Galindez stared at him in amazement. "You really think you can ransom him out?"

Rabb shrugged. "Why not? American Corporations do it all the time."

"Damn," Galindez said, "It could work, but I wish we had more time. This isn't my town. I've been working out of Bangkok. I wouldn't even know where to start."

He heard the soft sound of the door opening and closing behind them as Kim appeared with the cold beers. Harm paused and his gaze fell speculatively on the boy.

"All we really need," he said, "is someone with connections."


	11. Chapter 11

**Chapter Eleven**

30 MAY, 2021

WEBB RESIDENCE

ALEXANDRIA, VA

15:45 ZULU

            Clay took one look at the Mercedes and put his hand to the switch for the privacy window, lowering it to reveal the Kennedy and the Company driver. 

            "Stop!" He barked the order sharply enough to bring the limo to a screeching halt. He leapt from the car and paced the short distance to the convertible with a predatory stride then stopped. His hands flew to his hips and his mouth tightened as he surveyed the damage.

            He stood there for several seconds, his green eyes glittering and the muscles in his jaw contracting as he fought to control his already frayed temper. Three days of suffering the indignities of hospital poking and prodding had already combined to boil over in one minor outburst when a orderly had informed him that he would have to ride down to his car in a wheel chair, rather than walking out on his own, perfectly capable two feet. Only his wife's terse, "quit whining Webb, and get in the chair," and the fact that Kennedy was at the helm had served to mollify him.

            With a look that indicated extreme irritation and sorely tested patience, he rounded upon the small group that was slowly filtering out of the limousine. "What happened to my car?"

            Penny folded her arms across her chest and tilted her head to indicate Kennedy and the two Special Protection Officers who flanked him. "You should have parked it in the garage. --I told you he was gonna notice."

            Sarah said nothing as she returned her husband's accusatory glare with equanimity. Frankly, she had left the car out on purpose. Best to get it all out in the open and be done with it, she decided. –If only the other matter she had to discuss with him could be handled so easily…

            "Well?" he demanded. "Is somebody going to tell me what happened?"

            "It was a hit and run," she said casually. "Someone backed into it at Beltway Burgers and drove away."

            "You took my car to Beltway Burgers?" he said in disbelief, "The cafeteria would have been gourmet compared to that." His eyes shifted from her to the car and back to her again, as if hoping he had somehow imagined it. "You took my car to Beltway Burgers?!" he said again, his voice rising, and this time she detected outrage mingled with the disbelief.

            "Sorry, they didn't have valet parking," She said dryly, and stalked past him towards the house. Obviously, he was spoiling for a fight. He was going to get it, but not right now. She didn't want Penny or the "entourage" as an audience when she said the things she had to say to him.

            Kennedy left Clay with an aluminum briefcase full of the latest documents requiring his perusal and quickly departed with the limo and the driver. The two Special Protection Officers, looking slightly embarrassed, took a moment to settle their armloads of flowers, cards and balloons on the hall table and then melted away quietly to their positions at the front and back gates of the property. The three of them stood in the living room for a long moment. The silence that had suddenly fallen over the house was palpable. Penny looked uneasily from one parent to another.

            "So Mom," she said casually, "when do you want to get started on the potato salad?"

            God, Mac thought, it really must be bad if Penny was actually volunteering to help in the kitchen. In her daughter's eyes, any sort of domestic chore was to be regarded as a fate worse than death. On the other hand, an offer of help from her child was an offer not to be turned down.

            "Right now," she said quickly. "Go and wash your hands and I'll start scrubbing the potatoes, and you can start peeling them."

            Clay looked at Penny, "You want some help? I'd hate to find any fingers in my potato salad."

            Penny smirked and arched a disbelieving brow. "You know how to peel potatoes? –I thought you left the scut work to your souse chef." On the nights when it was Clay's turn to cook, he could sauté, broil, roast or grill with the best of them, but even then he usually made Penny clean and cut the vegetables.

            He responded to her sarcasm with a bland look. "Of course," he said lightly, enjoying the repartee with his daughter. "I was in the Army once. It's the first thing they teach you in boot camp."

            Mac only barely resisted the urge to roll her eyes. The bulk of his military service had been with the Adjutant General's office. The closest Clay had ever come to preparing a potato in the Army was rubber stamping requisitions for cases of instant mashed flakes.

            "I think we can manage," she said, and looked pointedly at the briefcase. "Besides, we probably shouldn't bother you. I'm sure Kennedy has left you plenty of homework to catch up on."

            Penny looked at her oddly for a moment, but it was Clay's face she fixed upon as she spoke. His smile faded instantly, the green eyes going flat and impenetrable as he returned her gaze. He nodded slowly, and when he spoke, his voice was brusque and businesslike. It was the voice of the DCI, not of her husband.

            "You're right," he said, as his glance traveled from her to Penny. "I'll leave you to it, then," he said, and made down the hall for his study with the briefcase in hand.

            The silence that followed him was intense enough that the sound of the study door softly closing was audible all the way down the hallway.

            Mac sighed and headed for the kitchen, feeling the anger and frustration that had been simmering within her since last evening slowly start to churn to a slow boil. If the weekend could possibly get any worse, she certainly couldn't see how. If she had believed in that sort of thing, she might have wondered if perhaps some strange convergence of the stars and planets had been taking place to unleash so much disaster within a three day period. Clay's heart attack, the car troubles and the hassles of the party aside, the entire house felt like a ticking bomb, ready to explode. Bud's little revelation last night had merely pulled the pin on this particular hand grenade that had suddenly rolled between her and Clay. The only question, she thought, was which one of them was going to be the one to take their thumb off the spoon and let it blow.

            Moving to the large stainless steel refrigerator, she began taking out the necessary vegetables, yanking at the compartments with a bit more force than was really necessary. She felt like a fool. Looking back, it all made sense now. His odd silences, his sleepless nights, and his preoccupation with thoughts he could not discuss with her… If she hadn't been so worried about trying to tell him about her decision to help Sergei find out about Harm, she would have realized that that was exactly when all of his strange behavior had really begun. It certainly explained why the Navy had been stonewalling them. –Most likely because the Navy itself was being stonewalled …by the CIA.

            She slammed the refrigerator door shut. Damn him! He had known all along. He had known in the hospital when she had finally worked up the nerve to tell him about the case. He had known and he had had the gall to act is if he was upset that she hadn't told him. –_When he had already known for weeks._ She yanked open a kitchen cabinet, seeking out a stock pot. –Bastard! He'd actually had the nerve to make her feel guilty about it! That was what bothered her the most.

            No, she quickly amended. What bothered her most was that he'd lied to her.

            Granted, it was a part of who he was and what he was trained to do. If it was done in the name of national security, he probably could have sold P.T. Barnum the Brooklyn Bridge. She'd worked with him enough in the years before their marriage to see him in action, and she was familiar with his technique. It was the verbal slight of hand he employed that made him so convincing. He had the ability to carefully craft his words, leading you to make a particular assumption without ever actually stating the falsehood himself. By the time he did tell an outright whopper, he had paved the path so smoothly that you barely even noticed. But that was work. Lying to checkpoint guards and arms dealers was one thing. Lying to the people who loved him was something completely different.

            She'd known the instant he'd done it. It had been easy enough to tell. She had boxed him in neatly, and he had been watching her with all the intensity of a cornered animal…and then he had changed. How exactly, she couldn't say, but for one indefinable moment, something had been different. Something had shifted in the murky green depths of his eyes, and suddenly she had been talking to a stranger.

            Perhaps, she thought bitterly, she'd been talking to a stranger all along. She didn't think he had ever lied to her before, but now, she wasn't so sure. Her mind filtered back to her conversation with Victor –God, had it only been yesterday morning?

_            "Oh, there are lots of things he's not telling you…"_

            She'd always told herself she could live with the secrets, the times he couldn't tell her where he was or when he'd be back, the nightmares he couldn't talk about. Now she wasn't so sure

            Penny sailed briskly into the kitchen, stirring her from her darkening thoughts. She had changed into a tank top and shorts and her shoulder length dark hair was pulled up out of her face with a hair clip. 

            "Bring on the potatoes," she said, hiking herself up onto one of the stools beside the butcher block island. Sarah shoved the potatoes, a peeler and a couple bowls in front of her daughter and turned back to rummage through the cabinets in search of the old tin recipe box.

            Her fingers encountered the sharp metal corners and she plucked it down from the shelf. The battered white tin seemed incongruous with the rest of the highly polished kitchen, but the little box was one of her few treasures.

            She'd never been much of a cook, and considering their busy lifestyle, it really hadn't mattered much to Clay. Most of the time, when they weren't eating out, they dined on the dishes that their housekeeper prepared and left in the oven before leaving for the day. On nights when he was in the mood for something a little more upscale, Clay might take a turn –usually with Penny's assistance. Aside from her morning coffee and bagels, or the occasional urge to bake some cookies, she was pretty much a visitor to her own kitchen. But on the rare occasions when she did cook, she usually bypassed the small bookcase with Clay's carefully chosen selection of cookbooks, and went straight for the box.

            It was the only thing she'd taken for herself when they'd packed up the house after A.J.'s death. A few small personal items had been taken to Meredith. As for the rest of it, what Francesca hadn't wanted, she and Harriet had sold or given to charity. But no one had seemed much interested in an old tin recipe box, and she'd dumped it in the small box of things she'd meant to take home with her and put in the garbage. Later, when she had opened it up, she'd discovered a treasure trove.

            One spattered card was scrawled with the ingredients for the Admiral's chili, a five alarm concoction that had been guaranteed to send every junior officer in the JAG office running for the water fountains. Another, equally stained scrap of paper contained the directions for AJ's ever popular Swedish meatballs. She recognized many of the recipes from years of office potlucks and private dinners at the Admiral's house, but not all of them were in AJ's heavy, cramped hand. There was a faded and dog-eared clipping from a newspaper for a sweet potato casserole with a few additions in a fine, lacy hand that she suspected was his mother's. She'd never been much of a fan of sweet potatoes, but she'd loved that dish, and just the thought of it conjured memories of happier times, gathered around the Admiral's table at an elegant Christmas or Thanksgiving dinner. There was a memory for almost every card in the box, from A.J's barbeque sauce to Meredith's god-awful chocolate chip cookies, and on the days when she missed them most, she found that a walk through the recipe box and a little time in the kitchen making one of the simple down home dishes was just the cure she needed.

            She'd discovered the potato salad one day, quite by accident. It was an old recipe, written on a yellowed, unlined card in the flowing faded ink of a blue fountain pen. At the top was scrawled "Grandma Chegwidden's Potato Salad" and in the corner was inked the date, 1910. It was unlike any other potato salad recipe she'd ever seen, and just odd enough that she'd made a small batch for no other reason than the sheer curiosity of what such an unusual combination of ingredients would taste like. She'd fallen instantly in love with it, and so had everyone else. As a result, she'd been stuck with making the damned potato salad every holiday picnic since.

            Unfortunately, she must have been in a hurry the last time she'd made it, for the recipe didn't seem to be in its usual spot. Gritting her teeth, she started at the front of the box and slowly began to sort through it, card by card.

            "Mom?" 

            "Hmmm?"

            "Are you mad at Daddy?"

            "Whatever gave you that idea?" 

--_It certainly couldn't be the fact that any one who's come within ten feet of us has felt the need to put on a sweater and turn up the thermostat._

            Penny raised her eyes from the potato she was working on, her expression casual, yet cautious. She lifted one shoulder slightly. "I don't know. –You just seem funny today. You hardly said anything to Dad on the way home. –You've hardly said anything at all."

            "Well, there you go," Mac said practically. "You know how your father and I get when we're mad about something. We always have plenty to say to each other."

            Penny lifted one brow in an arch expression as if to say _tell me about it. She dropped the peeled potato into the pan of water and reached for another. "It's just that the two of you are acting so weird today."_

            "Weird how?" Mac said, digging frantically now for the recipe. She really didn't want to discuss this. –Especially not with her fourteen-year old daughter. Where in the hell was that card, anyway?

            "It's just that with Dad coming home from the hospital today…" Penny hesitated and screwed up her face as she tried to put her finger on the matter, "—I don't know, I just thought you'd be happier about it."

            _So did I, Mac thought grimly, flipping over another card. Again, it was not the one she wanted, but the few simple words, written in bold lavender ink with Meredith's rounded script brought her to a screeching halt._

_Recipe for a Happy Marriage and Lifelong Love:_

_Truth, Trust and Forgiveness_

_Mix in equal parts and take daily for the rest of your life._

            She remembered this card well. She'd laughed the first time she'd found it. It had been paper clipped to the back of Meredith's banana bread recipe, and near the bottom, in a smaller hand, had been a brief note.

_AJ, next time tell me if you don't like my baking. –It will save the dog the trip to the vet and I WILL forgive you …eventually._

_M._

            Now, however, she could only stare at the three words scrawled mockingly across the middle of the card: Truth …Trust …Forgiveness. Not so long ago, she had thought that she and Clay had been blessed with all the ingredients for a happy life together. Now, she wasn't so sure. They seemed to be pretty low on truth and fresh out of trust. The jury was still out on forgiveness…

            "So, are you?" Penny pressed, breaking into her thoughts.

            "Am I what?"

            "Mad at Daddy?"  
            Mac sighed. She might have her share of shortcomings, but unlike her husband, she still had a little truth to go with them.

            "Yes," she said tersely, and continued to plow on through the box. The faded index card appeared at last, stuck between a magazine clipping from an old issue of Southern Living and what appeared to be a label peeled off the back of a Pace Picante bottle. 

            "Why?" Penny wanted to know.

            On the other hand, Mac reflected, there were times when it paid to take a page from Clay's play book. Just because she told the truth, didn't mean she was required to tell all of it.

            She laid the recipe card down on the counter in front of Penny. "It's need to know," she said shortly. 

            Penny shot her the same disgruntled look she always gave Clay when he used it on her. "—And I don't need to know," Penny sighed.

            Mac flashed her daughter a tight smile and wondered if it looked as phony as it felt.

"You can peel the cucumbers next," she said.

***

_23:00 EST___

_Webb Residence_

            Clay stared down at the page that he had been looking at –but not actually reading—for the last half hour. In fact, he was still on the same damned briefing he'd pulled from his briefcase four hours earlier. He tossed the report back into the brief case and locked it. He was thoroughly disgusted with himself. He'd never been this unfocused before, but then he'd never had his life so close to blowing completely to hell, either.

            Well, he amended ruefully, he had, but it had been a long time ago …and he hadn't really had this much to lose. In fact, stranded as he had been in the ass end of Argentina, he really hadn't had anything except his wits and his vital signs, and neither had meant very much to him at that particular moment in time. 

Life was often cheap in the intelligence business, and life in South America had been cheaper than most places. There had been a time, after his exile to Suriname and a few months before Kershaw had offered him the Tierra del Fuego assignment, that he frankly hadn't given a damn whether he lived or died. He'd only wanted it to end. Whether that ending had come with a plane ticket home or a bullet in the back of the head hadn't much mattered to him so long as it was over. It was likely only habit and the very real concern of what it would do to his mother if he did get killed that had kept him alive Argentina's seamy criminal underworld. …And then Sarah had agreed to go to Paraguay with him. –And incredibly, in the midst of that living nightmare he had drug her into, he began to think that perhaps it did matter after all.

            Without even realizing it, she had resurrected something inside him that he'd thought he'd lost, and he'd reached for it with a tenacity that surprised even him. She was his light in the darkness. She was his reason for living. She had been the strength that he'd reached for in those agonizing hours of torture he had endured at the hands of Siddiq Faad's men, and the hope that he'd clung to in that long desperate drive through the Chaco Boreal with Galindez. She was his miracle, his gift from God …and now, in the truest example of all humanity, he'd managed to royally screw it up.

            If he had only suspected it last night, he was certain of it now. The whole damned day had been a disaster. It had been obvious when she'd met him at the hospital this morning that something was wrong, and her responses to his questions and comments had only gotten frostier as the day progressed. It didn't take a rocket scientist to figure out what was wrong. Obviously, she knew. –Exactly how much she had discovered, he could not be certain, but obviously Bud's relentless digging had finally revealed something tangible. –And it wasn't just Bud. Catherine had obviously been asking a few questions of her own, and judging from the conversation he'd had with Galindez this afternoon, there would be no support coming from that quarter. He couldn't really blame her. He probably shouldn't have stonewalled her on this, but the truth of the matter was that he hadn't been ready to talk about it. Unfortunately, that clearly wasn't going to be an option any more. The cat was steadily clawing its way out of the bag. Once it got out, there would be no going back to the way things were. Galindez was right. He had to tell Sarah –and soon—but it wasn't as easy as it sounded.

Dinner had been a strained affair at best, with Penny chattering nervously to fill the chasm of silence that had suddenly erupted between her parents. Sarah had brushed off his efforts to get close to her in the afternoon, helping out in the kitchen, and she'd studiously avoided him for the remainder of the evening. She'd made it abundantly clear she did not want to talk to him, and Penny's constant hovering in the background made it impossible to override her decision. Tomorrow was out of the question, of course. What with the cookout planned and their presence expected they would have to spend the day making nice for all of their friends and colleagues. He only hoped they could pull off the charade.

It would have to be Tuesday. Penny would be back in school. He would still be off on sick leave, and she would be off because …well, because it would be expected. On the other hand, he thought ruefully, Sarah had never been much of one for conforming to convention. She might decide to go to work just to spite him. He scowled and raked a hand through his hair. –So what if she did? He wasn't an invalid. He was perfectly capable of going down to her office, slamming the door shut behind them and demanding five minutes of her time. He'd rather it not come to that, of course. It wouldn't be pretty. But on the other hand, neither could it be avoided any longer. He sensed that time was running out. He only hoped that it wasn't already too late.

            Switching out the light, he closed the door to his study and made his way down the hall to the bedroom. His eye traveled to their bed. It was empty. His mouth thinned in growing disgust. He was tired of walking on eggshells in his own house. This was getting to be ridiculous. Turning on his heel, he strode back down the hall way and found her at last island in the kitchen. She had poured herself a glass of milk, and was seated at the island, studying something on her laptop.

            "Aren't you coming to bed?"

            Her eyes never left the screen. "Not yet," she replied. "You go on ahead."

            He waited for a beat, allowing the silence to stretch out between them.

            "Fine," he said at last, and turned and headed back down the hallway.

            Stalking back into the bedroom, he grabbed his pajamas out of the bureau and caught a glimpse of his own grim features in the dressing mirror._ That went well, he thought acidly. He wasted little time in readying himself for bed, taking a quick, perfunctory shower, and brushing his teeth before turning back to the empty bed that beckoned._

            Turning back the covers, he climbed in and adjusted the pillow beneath his neck before reaching over to switch off the bedside lamp. He laid flat on his back with his eyes closed, willing his mind to empty and his body to relax. …He rolled onto his right side and curled himself slightly into a ball, burrowing deeper into the covers and seeking the illusion of warmth and safety and comfort that always lulled him off to sleep. ….He rolled onto his left side and stared at the empty space on her side of the bed. He sighed and lay flat on his back again, staring at the soft white plaster of the ceiling.

            It was going to be a long night.

            Sometime later he heard her slip softly into the room. He opened his eyes and stared at the clock. Forty-five minutes. It had seemed like hours. He lay there quietly, feigning sleep as he listened to the small familiar sounds she made: the whisper of clothing falling to the floor, the creak of the hamper lid, the hiss of the shower turning on, the slight protest of the pipes and the abrupt silence as she turned it off, the whir of the hair dryer, the small scrubbing sounds as she brushed her teeth, the bathroom door opening …closing, the sound of soft footsteps padding across the carpet to the bed…

            And then silence.

            The air in the room seemed to still for a moment as he waited with growing apprehension for the next sounds in that familiar routine: the rustle of the coverlet being thrown back on her side of the bed …the soft creak of the bed springs as she settled in beside him …the warmth and comfort of her body next to his. He waited for it. He clenched his teeth. He hoped. He closed his eyes. He prayed.

            And then he heard it: the soft sound of her footsteps, moving away and the tell-tale snick of the bedroom door opening under her hand.

            "Where are you going?" The words spilled out of him before pride could call them back.

            She stilled, and in the dim light that filtered in from the hallway, he could see the fine line of tension that ran through her body, stiffening her spine and curling her fingers into fists before she forced herself back to composure.

            "Down the hall," she said at last. "You need to rest. I don't want to disturb you."

            It was a lame excuse. They both knew it. He levered himself up onto one elbow, pinning her with his sharp green gaze.

            "You don't disturb me, Sarah."

            She turned to look at him then, staring at him with an intensity that seemed to bore right through him. Her face was expressionless, her eyes eerily unreadable in the faint light from the hall.

            "No," she agreed, "but you disturb me."

            "Why?" He asked, putting just the right amount of innocence in the word, knowing it would push her buttons and make her angry. He waited for the explosion, desperate now for the familiar pattern of her fury. He wanted her to yell and scream at him. He wanted to shout back. And more than anything, he wanted that moment when their anger would spark into passion and consume them both. God, how he wanted that!

He wanted to hold her tonight. He needed it. Hell, he just needed her.

            He waited for the explosion, but it never came.

            "Why?" he asked again, and this time he could not hide the ache in his voice.

            She cocked her head slightly, and he thought he caught a flit of what might have been sadness chase across her face.

            "You know why, Clay" she said softly and walked out, closing the door behind her.

***

            He tried to sleep, but quickly gave it up. The room was too silent and the bed too empty. Hating the dark, cavernous atmosphere that the bedroom had suddenly acquired, he rose and pulled on his robe. Stepping out into the hallway, he heard the soft clink of metal tags from somewhere in the darkness. He peered down the hall to his left, and saw Jack curled up in the tiny alcove outside Penny's door, most likely banished for trying to sleep on the bed. Jack cocked his head toward the open door with a hopeful expression. Clay frowned at the dog and pulled the bedroom door shut behind him. The dog sighed heavily and dropped his head back down between his paws as he shot his master a beseeching look. Clay ignored it. 

            Turning, he set off down the hallway with the intention of retreating to the wing chair and the fireplace, as he did on all those other nights when the guilt and the memories came surging forth and sleep refused to claim him. He was halted, however, by the thin shaft of light that sliced across the polished hardwood floor of the hallway. His eyes traced it back to the small crack beneath the door of the guest bedroom. He stood for a moment, listening intently until he caught the faint click of her fingers upon the keys of her laptop. So she couldn't sleep, either.

            He moved carefully, mindful of the creaking floorboards until he was standing before the guestroom door. Gently, he laid his hand upon the knob. Slowly, silently, he twisted it. The door knob turned the barest fraction of an inch and stopped, unyielding beneath his fingers. Locked. The clicking of the keyboard stopped abruptly.

            He closed his eyes and pressed his forehead against the polished panel, willing her to come to him. The silence reigned. His hand curled into a fist and raised to knock, then stopped. What would he do if she didn't answer? Pick the lock? He lowered his hand and quietly backed away. 

            The dog tags chimed softly once again and he glanced back down the hall towards Penny's door. Jack stirred slightly and sighed as he tried to find a more comfortable position. The dog sprawled out on his side, and one eye shifted to Clay as if to say, _"join the club, pal."_

            If he hadn't known better, he'd have sworn the damned dog was smirking at him.

            The click of the keyboards resumed.

            He felt a surge of frustration wash over him, and continued on down the hallway, taking care to avoid the squeaky floorboard just past his study door. His anger drove him to the sideboard, and he opened the door of the liquor cabinet, reaching automatically for the heavy crystal decanter of single-malt scotch. He lifted the decanter and yanked out the stopper, tipping the neck towards a waiting tumbler.

            Nothing came out.

            He stared at the decanter in consternation. It was empty.

            He swore as realization dawned upon him. Penny.  She had been nagging him all weekend. She'd pestered him about taking his pills tonight, and she'd rationed out his dinner with scientific regimen. –And she had obviously been taking diligent mental notes of the doctor's instructions when they released him from the hospital: no smoking, no junk food …and no alcohol. He stared glumly at the empty decanter. It had been over half full of twelve year old Springbank. She'd probably dumped it down the drain.

            He sank dejectedly into the wing chair and reached for the remote. The gas fireplace ignited with the touch of a button, and he stabbed repeatedly at the arrow buttons, decreasing the gas flow until only a few small flames licked at the artificial logs. Five minutes later, he was still sitting there, dismally contemplating the fire in an effort not to think. It wasn't really working. He almost felt a rush of relief when that finely honed sixth sense kicked in, alerting him to another presence.

            "Trying to sneak up on me?" He murmured. He tilted his head slightly and gazed into the luminous pair of pale yellow eyes that watched him from the shadows beneath the coffee table.

            "You're good, but you're not that good, old man."

            The cat stretched languidly and padded slowly across the fire-lit tiles of the hearth, coming to a stop at Clay's feet. Tigger sat down, somehow managing a delicate air in spite of his size. The cat regarded him expectantly. Like the well-trained human that he was, Clay raised his hand and rubbed his thumb and forefingers together in invitation. The tabby deigned to accept it and sprang into his lap, settling in with kneading claws and a throaty, rumbling purr. 

            His fingers settled unconsciously into the dark orange fur, and the cat's rumble grew even louder. He shot the cat a sardonic look. "Don't worry, I'm not fooled. I know you only missed the body heat and the breakfast sausage."

            The cat blinked, as if to acknowledge the veracity of the statement and glanced back to watch the fire. Clay joined him, content to watch the flames as well. There was something comforting in the presence of the cat and he allowed his fingers to rub absently at all the animal's favorite spots: behind the ears, under the chin, at the nape of the neck. The clock on the mantel chimed one. He supposed he should really think about going back to bed, but he didn't see much point in it. He wouldn't sleep anyway.

            The cat stretched and shifted slightly to catch a better view of the fire. The steady purring continued, the constant rumble keeping time with the breathing of the man as it slowed and deepened, evening out into the heavy respirations of slumber. Soon the man began to emit a soft, steady rumble of his own.

            The snoring stopped abruptly and the cat tensed as the man shifted and muttered in his sleep. Cautiously raising its head, the cat stared intently into the man's face, studying the nervous, darting movements that shifted beneath the closed eyelids. It was a pattern the animal was more than familiar with. Moving stealthily, the cat rose carefully and jumped to the floor, abandoning the man in the chair to his tangled dreams.


	12. Chapter 12

**Part Twelve**

_Ten years earlier…_

SOMEWHERE IN NORTH KOREA

Consciousness returned to him in slow, agonizing stages. The first sensation he became aware of was the dull, painful throbbing at the base of his skull. _'Rifle butt,' _Clay thought dimly, remembering the shimmering image of the soldier reflected in the quiet water of the river only a split second before he had felt the explosion of pain and the darkness had taken him. This awareness was immediately followed by the fiery agony that radiated up and down his left leg, pulsing from a point midway along his upper thigh. _'Bullet wound,' he reminded himself and managed to crack a blood caked eyelid open enough to glance down at the wound, bound with a dirty scrap of cloth that had been his bandanna. Damn. That had been the good leg. On the other hand, he supposed he could try and look on the bright side: when he put it together with the scar from where Palmer had shot him, he'd at least have a matched pair._

            The morbid thought caused a sour laugh to bubble out of him, and he instantly regretted it as it awakened a whole new barrage of agonies to be inventoried and assessed. Split cheekbone, missing molar, sprained ankle …and probably at least one broken rib. In short, he was a mess.

            He achieved enough clarity to realize that he was sitting upright in a hard straight backed chair. He attempted to move and was immediately brought up short by battered muscles that screamed in protest from long, untold hours suspended in the awkward position. He sat still for a long moment, breathing shallowly through his nose and slowly took stock of the situation. He flexed his wrists and felt a fresh wave of pain slice through his flayed skin. They had bound him to the chair with plastic zip ties. He must have fought it, though he didn't remember. He was having a hard enough time remembering just how in the hell he had gotten into this situation in the first place.

            _'Kwan,' he thought bitterly. The little bastard had sold him out. He'd seen it in the man's eyes when they'd floated straight into the patrol. There had been no real surprise there. He'd reacted almost instantly, diving off the boat into the river, but he'd known even then that it had already been too late. The bullets had sliced the water like a storm of angry bees and he'd felt the impact as the 9-millimeter round had struck deep into his thigh. It had hampered his efforts as he'd struggled to dive deep into the filthy waters of the Tae-dong, but somehow, he had managed to make it to shore. To his credit, he had managed to lead them on a merry chase. Not bad, he thought, considering he was without supplies, wounded, half-drowned and had no idea where in the hell he was going. He'd managed to evade them for almost forty-eight hours before the weakness finally caught up to him. If it hadn't been for the bullet wound, he might have had a shot, but between the blood loss and the fever that had finally settled over him, he knew he was only buying time against the inevitable. Be it from the infected wound or a bullet from his captors, the outcome was going to be the same: He wasn't going to make it out._

            There was Galindez, of course. Victor would have missed him by now. –How long had it been? –Two days? –Three? Galindez had to be harassing every contact from Beijing to Bangkok looking for him. Not that it was going to matter much. Galindez was only one man …and Webb was expendable. As soon as his capture was confirmed, the Agency would yank Galindez back so fast it would make his head spin. After a reasonable amount of time had passed, they'd bolt another star on the wall. Shit. He really hated doing that to Sarah.

            Sarah. The random thought conjured her instantly in his mind and he wondered if they had told her yet. Probably not, he decided. They wouldn't until they were sure. He hoped they would at least have the decency to send Vic to do it. It would be better if it came from a friend. He closed his eyes and indulged himself for a moment, letting his thoughts travel back to that crazy little polychrome house on a quiet street in Alexandria. What would she be doing now? Probably playing with Penny in the back yard or splashing in the pool. Either that, he decided, or arguing with the contractors that were refurbishing the copper gutters on the house. If it were Saturday, she probably wouldn't be there at all. They'd both be at the farm, taking lunch with Mother and Harrison after a long, leisurely morning ride. God, what he wouldn't give to be there with them, just one more time.

            He heard a rise of mingled voices from somewhere beyond the rusted iron grate that served for a window, and quickly packed all thoughts of home. He couldn't afford to think of any of that now. He had to keep his attention on the matter at hand. Obviously, the KPA had decided he'd had a long enough period of "softening up." The interrogation was about to begin.

            A few minutes later he heard the screeching of a heavy door somewhere beyond his tiny chamber. Moments after that, the thick wooden door that secured the room was thrown back on protesting hinges. He stared dully at the floor until a pair of polished black boots crossed his line of vision and stopped, directly in front of him. He didn't look up. Frankly, he couldn't. The muscles in his neck seemed to have turned to jelly with the long hours strapped upright in the chair.

            A black gloved hand gripped his chin firmly between thumb and forefinger and forced his head up to meet the few thin rays of sunlight that filtered through the grate. The muscles in his neck screamed in agony and intensified the pounding headache that had settled at the back of his head. In spite of his best intentions to remain silent, a small moan escaped him. Prying open both eyelids he managed to look into the face of the man before him with what he hoped was an expression of blank confusion, even as he quickly studied his captor.  He didn't even need to glance at the medals and insignia on the man's uniform to know that his inquisitor was an important man indeed. The face was enough. It was scattered through no less than thirteen different files back in the Seoul Station.

            General Yi Song-gye, the Director of the State Security Department, the North Korean equivalent of the CIA. 

Shit. It just didn't get any worse than this.

            Yi's dark, obsidian eyes drilled into him with the precision of a drill bit, waiting for him to flinch. He supposed that he should. After all, it was what some scared shitless Dutch photographer named Anders Vandergraaf would probably do, and if he had a hope in hell of getting out of this alive, it was by sticking to the cover. But there was some inner sense, be it instinct or stubbornness, which made him hold that steady black look until he finally put his finger upon it. Looking into the eyes of Yi Song-gye was like staring a tiger in the face. If you matched his gaze, you were possibly an equal. If you blinked, you were prey.

            He didn't blink.

            Releasing his grip upon Webb's chin, Yi turned away in a sharp, dismissive gesture. He walked to the other side of the small metal table and took a seat in the chair directly across from the one in which Webb was bound. Flipping open the single manila file folder that was precisely positioned on the table before him, Yi studied the first page for a moment, then spoke in a short, sharp burst of Korean.

            Clay sensed the movement from somewhere behind him, and tensed involuntarily. He couldn't quite suppress the sharp hiss of breath as the blade of the knife slid against his raw skin and sliced through the plastic ties that bound his wrists. Slowly, carefully, he pulled his arms from behind the chair and brought his hands to lay flat upon the table before him. His muscles twitched and tingled with the slow return of the blood flow, but he resisted the urge to rub them. It was all about appearances, this game. He couldn't afford to blink.

            Instead, he took the opportunity to openly study his captor. Physically, Yi was not a particularly tall or brawny man, but there was an aura about him that exuded force and power and made him seem larger than he actually was. He looked to be perhaps in his late forties, but this too was an illusion, for the Agency files definitively pinned his age as sixty one, although there was some debate as to the exact place of his birth. It was his precision, Webb decided, which lent to Yi's aura of infallibility. 

There was a boundless vigor to the man, but it was tightly controlled and channeled into such precise movements and mannerisms as to seem indestructible. It made him think of a munitions factory he'd once visited in West Germany, where powerful and highly concentrated jets of water were used to cut and machine high grade steel and titanium alloys into casings for missiles. Yi was like one of those water jets: smooth and fluid, yet focused and deadly sharp. 

Yi looked up suddenly, snapping the folder shut. He spoke to Webb, another short, machine gun burst of Korean, and Webb silently cursed himself for not picking up more of the language. But then again, he really hadn't expected to actually be running a mission here. It was only supposed to be another housecleaning operation. --Find the leak and plug it. Hob-knobbing with the locals just hadn't been on the agenda …until the North Korean mouse decided to roar and everyone discovered the goddamned thing did have teeth after all …or at least nuclear missiles.

He forced himself to meet Yi's gaze and considered his options: Dutch or Thai? Which would fit better with his cover? It was possible, he decided, that Anders Vandergraaf, if he was any kind of a photojournalist, would speak both. He gave his name first in Dutch, and then, more haltingly, in Thai, asking to be put in touch with his embassy.

Yi regarded him impassively for a long moment. When he finally spoke, it was in smooth, flawless, impeccably cultured English that bore just the slightest trace of a Boston accent.

"Let us not waste time with pretense, Mr. Webb. It will only delay the inevitable."

Webb stared at him blankly. He didn't know what to say, and so he said nothing.

Yi opened the file once more and slowly began turning pages. "Your record is very impressive," Yi said as he slowly scanned the information. "A graduate of Harvard and the National Cryptographic School, a brief stint in the Army achieving the rank of Major, and currently listed as a Colonel in the reserves…" Yi flipped another page, "You've spent some time with the NSA before coming to the Central Intelligence Agency where you apparently rose quite rapidly through the ranks until for some reason you suddenly fell out of favor with your former Director…" Yi turned to the last page, "a brief recall to Washington and glory by the newly appointed DCI Kershaw …and then nothing. –Except, of course for a few scattered rumors…." Yi let the sentence trail off.

_Nothing?_ Webb thought wildly. Yi had almost everything except his fifth grade report card and the name of his dog laid out right there on the table in front of him. Where in the hell had he gotten it? Clay felt the knots begin to clench in the pit of his stomach. There was only one place he could have gotten it. God damn it! He'd known the leaks in the Seoul station were bad, but apparently they'd been even worse than he could have imagined.

It was common knowledge that the North Koreans had many well placed spies inside the South Korean government and intelligence community, but it had always been assumed that the U.S. intelligence placed there was impervious to infiltration. Webb had known damned well that that was not the case when Kershaw had sent him and Galindez in to "get their Asian house in order," but even he had not realized just how bad it really was. There had to be a mole inside the Seoul station. One that was still active. –One that Galindez was probably not yet aware of. Benny Kwan was probably just the tip of the iceberg.

"I'm honored," Clay said dryly, deciding that Yi was right about one thing: there was simply no point in keeping up the pretense. They obviously had him dead to rights. "I had no idea that your agency had taken such an interest in my career."

Yi shrugged. "I will admit that our interest is fairly recent, but we deemed you worthy of scrutiny nonetheless." He smiled a chilling tiger's smile. "It is not often that one has the opportunity to encounter a true Emperor's Hand."

"Emperor's Hand?" Clay frowned, not quite sure what Yi was getting at.

"A spy's spy, so to speak," Yi said, and arched one narrow black brow. Could it be that this barbarian imperialist had no idea of his own reputation? "It is an old Korean legend," he explained, "In the old days of the Imperial Dynasties, it was said that the Emperor often selected from among his most trusted warriors one man in whom he could place his supreme confidence. This man was both spy and assassin and vested with the full powers of the Emperor. His identity was unknown to anyone else, yet in the proper time and place he might speak with the Emperor's voice or slay with his hand --thus the term.'"

"Fascinating," Webb said, "But I'm not entirely certain what it has to do with me. My country was still a democracy last I checked."

"Your country, perhaps," Yi agreed, "But not the CIA.  From all reports, your Mr. Kershaw has been running the Company with an iron fist since Mr. Watts' unfortunate dismissal. I understand that he has been 'getting the house in order?'"

Clay resisted the urge to grit his teeth. God damn it! That phrase had come word for word from one of Kershaw's internal agency memos. What the hell had they been doing down there in Seoul? Forwarding courtesy copies to the North Korean government in P'yŏngyang?

"And then of course, there are the stories," Yi continued. "No one seems to know exactly what it is you do, Mr. Webb, but one thing is agreed upon. Wherever you go, offices are reorganized. Information useful to our cause stops flowing. People are either transferred or…" Yi hesitated meaningfully, "…disappear…"

Webb said nothing, but something hardened in the green of his eyes, and Yi smiled again, knowing that it was a truth confirmed.

"You'll pardon my confusion, General," Clay said carefully, but I thought this was supposed to be an interrogation, not a recitation of my resume."

Yi raised his head, his eyes boring into Webb's, dark and earnest. "Oh, but this is not an interrogation, Mr. Webb. –Quite the contrary, in fact."

Yi rose from his chair and paced towards the small, high, grated window. His hands locked behind his back in an automatic gesture. Webb followed his movements from the corner of his eye. Not an interrogation? He used the tip of his tongue to gently probe at the raw, bleeding hole where his tooth had been. They could have fooled him.

"To be quite honest," Yi said as he gazed out the window, "there is no need to question you. I know who you are. I know what you have done. –I even know how you did it."

Yi let the import of his words sink in for a moment before turning back to Webb. "The only real question is what shall I do with you now?"

He unlaced his hands from behind his back and spread them before him in a gesture of exasperation. "Under normal circumstances, the answer would be quite obvious. I am perfectly within my rights to have you tried for espionage and executed. However, in light of your particular crime, the Supreme Leader is far more interested in seeing you turned over to the Chinese. It is a position I would normally agree with, considering that it was their airplane that you conspired to destroy."

Yi stopped a few feet short of his prisoner. "But by your very methods, Mr. Webb, you have denied me both of those most satisfying resolutions." He laced his hands behind his back. "I cannot execute you without risking the wrath of the Supreme Leader and jeopardizing my seat in the Political Bureau. –And I dare not allow you to be handed over to the Chinese for interrogation."

Webb allowed himself a small shrug, in spite of the pain that it cost him. "It is a bit of a quandary," he admitted, and risked a grim smirk. "So did you come here to ask me for my advice?"

A trace of anger flitted across Yi's features at the flippant tone, but it was quickly replaced by a bitter smile. "I think not," he said easily. "One in your position can hardly be objective about such a matter."

"The same could be said of you," Clay pointed out. He knew even as he said it that he probably should have kept his mouth shut. But in the end, he supposed it really didn't matter. Either way, silence wasn't going to buy him much. He might as well enjoy the sarcasm.

To his surprise, Yi's only response was a sharp bark of laughter. "So bold, even in the face of your own demise," the General paused. "Not many Asians would appreciate such audacity. --How fortunate for you that I am one of them."

"Undoubtedly a result of your impeccable Western education," Clay said dryly.

Yi nodded thoughtfully. "One must know one's enemy," he agreed, "which really brings us back to my original reason for conducting this little interview."

"Which was?" Webb prompted.

Yi smiled benignly. "Curiosity," he said at last, "…and a desire to know my enemy." His smile faded and the obsidian eyes grew dark and cold with barely contained fury. "I wanted to meet the man who convinced Yi ki-Chiang to betray his country. I wanted to meet the man who turned my son against me."

_The Webb Residence_

_23:55_ HRS EST__

_30 May, 2021___

The soft jingle of dog tags and the low growl that emanated from somewhere just outside the guest room door pulled Sarah's attention away from the soft liquid glow of the laptop's monitor. Tilting her head towards the locked door, she held her breath and listened. The house was hushed with intense quiet, but gradually her ears were able to identify and discern the tiny ambient noises: the soft whisper of the central air, the hum of the ceiling fan above her head and the faint click of Jack's toenails on the polished hardwood floors as he paced restlessly down the length of the hallway. The old dog paused suddenly and whined. It was a small sound, carried low in the back of his throat. From somewhere beyond the hallway, she heard a soft thump and Jack growled again, louder this time. She sighed and pushed the laptop aside, folding down the monitor to conceal the document she really hadn't been reading.

It was going to be another one of _those nights._

Swinging her feet to the floor, she slipped from the bed and reached for the robe she'd draped across the Stickley rocker. Pulling the garment on, she knotted the belt and crossed to the door, cursing when it didn't immediately open. She couldn't quite ignore the small twinge of guilt that assailed her as she twisted the lock. In all the years of their marriage, it was the one thing she had never done. She had never shut Clay out.

No matter what the disagreement, they'd always gone toe to toe and slugged it out until some sort of resolution –or truce—had been reached.  She had never run from a fight –especially not with Clay. She wasn't entirely certain why she was running away from this one.

_Yes you are,_ a small voice chided. _You're a coward, Sarah Mackenzie-Webb. You ran to __Russia__ when you were afraid to face Mic. You ran to the Sea Hawk when you were afraid to face Harm…and now you're running to your own damned guest room because you're afraid of what you'll find out if Clay really does break down and tell you the truth._

The fact of the matter was that she'd gone looking for the truth, and now she was finding that the closer she got, the less ready she was to hear it. It was leading her back to her own front door –to her own husband—and the more she discovered, the more she saw the fear growing in his eyes, the more frightened she became. Clay wasn't afraid of much, but he was afraid of this. And perhaps, she thought ruefully, that was more than enough to damn him.

She stepped into the hallway and looked down at Jack, who stood before her door looking tense and nervous. She paused to listen. Then, from the other end of the house, she heard it: a faint moan and a muffled thud. She sighed and spoke reassuringly to the old dog.

"It's all right, Jack. It's no burglar."

She almost wished it was. A burglar, at least, she knew how to handle.

The dog relaxed with a small sigh and sauntered back to his spot outside Penny's door. Turning on her heel, she moved down the hallway towards the source of the disturbance.

The soft glow from the fireplace cast long golden fingers of light about the room, lengthening the shadows and weaving them back and forth in a hypnotic dance of darkness and light. Threading her way around the couch and past an unlit floor lamp, she spotted the cat, tightly crouched in a huge orange ball beneath one corner of the coffee table. His bright golden eyes were wide open and studying the man in the wing chair with a fearful intensity.

The cat scurried away as she drew near, beating a strategic retreat to the shadowed refuge between the couch and the wall. He half-settled there, curling his tail about his feet, but she could tell from the nervous shifting of his paws and the wide yellow eyes that focused upon her intently that he was still spooked. She couldn't blame him. Clay's nightmares –when they were really bad—were enough to scare anyone.

Wrapping her robe more tightly about herself, she took a reluctant seat on the corner of the coffee table and studied her sleeping husband. Angry as she was at him, she still hated seeing him like this. She paused for a moment, watching as he jerked convulsively at some unknown terror. There was a part of her that couldn't help but be struck by the irony of the situation.

Usually, she loved to watch him sleep. It was only in those moments of unguarded slumber that the lines of care and worry eased from his face. It was only then that she could find the last traces of that little boy who smiled at her so sweetly from the yellowing pages of Porter's old photo album. There had been many a lazy Sunday morning she had lain in bed and watched him and wondered what their own son might have looked like. The doctors had said there could be no more children after Penny, but if Clay had regretted the lack of an heir to the Webb family name, he had never allowed it to show. Penny was their miracle, he had told her, and as far as he could see, one miracle per lifetime was as much as any man could hope for. Still, there was a part of her that always yearned for that little boy, and so she contented herself with lying quietly in bed on a Sunday morning and searching for the child she could not have in the face of the man that she loved.

Clay muttered incoherently and thrashed restlessly in his chair, his face screwed up in an expression of extreme distress. She sighed and leaned towards him, noting the nervous darting of his eyes behind the closed lids, and the small beads of sweat that had dampened his forehead. She frowned. If the respite of peaceful sleep erased the years from his face, the torment of the nightmares aged him. The lines of tension were deeply carved around his eyes and mouth and he always seemed to shrink in upon himself, becoming smaller, thinner and more fragile. It was in these dark moments that she was suddenly struck by the gray in his hair and the weariness in his eyes and always wondered when he had become so old.

He shifted again and muttered something. It sounded like "yee," but it didn't make much sense. She shook her head in exasperation. He was always so worried about talking in his sleep, afraid he'd reveal something classified, but he had no reason for concern. When he did murmur his dreams aloud, it never was anything coherent.

She leaned a little closer. "Clay," she called softly. His brow furrowed. He stirred, but didn't wake. 

"Clay," she called again, her tone more insistent. She knew better than to touch him. Like any combat veteran, he was bound to come up swinging. She called his name a third time, barking it like a Marine D.I. and he sprang suddenly back to wakefulness with a loud, gasping breath. His eyes, wide and unfocused, darted wildly about the darkened room, seeking his unseen enemy. His slim, tapered fingers clenched the arms of the chair in a white knuckled grip. His gaze fell upon her, and he flinched back instinctively.

"It's all right, Clay," she said softly, "You were dreaming."

He expelled the breath he had been holding in a long, ragged sigh and leaned forward, bracing his elbows upon his knees and burying his face in his palms.

"Yeah," he said gruffly. The word was muffled in his trembling hands.

When a long moment passed and he still did not raise his eyes to hers, she rose from the coffee table and came to stand in front of him. She reached out a tentative hand and stroked the locks of sweaty hair back from his forehead. He was still shaking.

"It must have been a bad one," she said quietly.

He didn't answer, but the arms that shot out and pulled her to him confirmed the observation. His hands gripped hard at her hips and he pressed his forehead tightly against her middle. He drew a long, shuddering breath, inhaling deeply of her scent. Both of her hands were in his hair now. Slowly, she traced her fingers along his temples and behind his ears, caressing down the back of his neck until she finally felt the tension begin to drain from his body.

"Do you want to talk about it?"

He laughed sharply. It was short, petulant sound. "No."

So, she thought grimly, the smart ass was back.

She pulled back and his hands fell from her hips as if she had burned him. He rubbed his hands across his haggard features, raking his fingers through his hair. Then, with a sudden, powerful movement, he lunged from the chair and stalked across the room to stand before the fireplace. He stared hard for a moment at the parade of small, framed photographs that strung along the mantel, but she knew that he wasn't really seeing any of them.

She folded her arms across her chest. "So is it classified? –Or just 'need to know?'"

His jaw clenched and he darted a small, dirty look in her direction. But he didn't speak. She could see the slight stiffening of his posture --could feel the walls coming up between them and silently cursed her own temper. She should have known better than to bait him. Clay always clammed up when he was on the defensive. If she'd taken a softer tact, she might have gotten through. But she'd blown it. Now she'd never be able to get past the arrogant asshole to reach the man who was hurting inside. ---The man who was hurting her.

She forced herself to tamp down her frustration. If they were going to talk, they needed to do it now. The opportunity had finally presented itself, and there wouldn't be time tomorrow.

"I'm sorry," she said at last. "I didn't mean to accuse you."

He stared moodily into the fire. "Yes you did," he said simply. "You wouldn't have said it if you didn't."

He pushed away from the mantel and turned to face her. His eyes were dark and unreadable in the firelight.

"You knew what you were getting into when we got married. I warned you that it would be this way." He paused for words, and a small muscle twitched at the corner of his mouth. "I am sorry that it has to be like this, but I am not going to apologize for who I am or what I do."

"_Does it have to be like this?" she asked softly. She shook her head. "We've been through rough patches before, Clay. Even when there were things you couldn't tell me –which was all the time—you never shut me out completely. Why are you doing it now? Why is this different?"_

He shoved his hands deep into the pockets of his robe, balling them into fists. "I can't tell you why, Sarah. –It just _is._" His eyes darted away from hers. "You're going to have to take my word for that."

She eyed him for a long moment. "I wish I could," she said, and sank back down onto the coffee table.

The silence stretched out between them. She studied her folded hands, noting the way the firelight played across her wedding rings and sparked across her diamond solitaire. It was an icy winter white. Not as large as the first one he'd given her, but flawless and of the finest clarity and cut. As she stared at the stone, she suddenly recalled the voice of Agent VanDien, the diamond expert, accented and gravelly and soft as a whisper in the back of her mind.

_"Diamonds are like people, Colonel. Sometimes, the flaws are hidden."_

She looked thoughtfully at Clay. Perhaps truer words were never spoken. Clay was very much like a diamond. In the right setting, he was hard, sharp, brilliant and cutting, but he also had his flaws. He was very good at hiding them. He kept them buried deep beneath the sparkle of his wit, disguised them with the polish of his wealth and power, but they were there just the same. It was only when he was under pressure or close scrutiny that they could be discerned, but she knew what to look for –in diamonds, and in men.

He was just standing there now, watching her quietly. --Waiting, no doubt, for her to make the next gambit in this little chess game. She considered him carefully. He obviously was not going to talk. All right, then. Perhaps he would listen.

"I'm so tired of this, Clay," she said softly.

"Tired of what?"

Typical Webb, she thought. She knew he wasn't trying to play dumb. He was simply asking for specifics. She sighed and waved a hand as she searched for the appropriate description. The firelight caught on her ring, a tiny spark in the darkness between them.

"This….this gulf between us," she said finally. "I don't know where it came from, or why it's there, and I'm tired of not knowing that, either."

She drew her legs up to her chest and hugged them close, resting her chin upon her knees as she contemplated the steady flames of the fire. "I know there's something wrong between us," she said finally, "but I don't know what –and you won't tell me, so I can't fix it." She shook her head angrily. "It's like you think I'm just supposed to _know, but I don't know!"_

He sighed heavily. "No, sweetheart," he said softly, "you're not supposed to know. That's the whole trouble."

Her head shot up quickly, her eyes brimming with outrage and disbelief. "Just what in the hell are you saying?" She hissed. "—I'm not supposed to know? I'm not supposed to know what's wrong with you? –I'm not supposed to know what's wrong with us? I'm your wife for God's sake!"

Clay groaned in frustration. He should have known better than to get into this kind of discussion with her tonight. He was tired and rattled. He wasn't thinking clearly about what he was saying, and now he had one very pissed off retired Marine on his hands.

"Sarah," he said soothingly, as he frantically searched for the words to placate her, but she was having none of it. She jumped to her feet and stalked towards him, her brown eyes snapping.

"No!" She said sharply, pushing him back with the force of her anger. "No, Clay! Don't you dare try and tell me to calm down! I can't believe you actually said that! Is that really your solution? Just keep me in the dark and hope I'll play the good little wife and forget all about it? If it is, I've got news for you. I'm tired of the fencing, but that doesn't mean I'm going to stop. Sooner or later, you're going to have to stop trying to protect me and tell me just what in the hell is going on."

He snorted. "I'm not trying to protect you, Sarah. Believe me, I know better."

"Then who are you protecting?" she demanded.

He managed to hold her eyes, but he didn't answer. 

She turned away. "It's not like I'm asking for the moon here, Clay. I know that there are things that you can't tell me. I've always known that. I understand it and I accept it –even if I don't always like it." 

She wrapped her arms tightly about herself to suppress the sudden chill that was stealing over her. "But lately I've gotten the feeling that you're not being honest with me –and that I _can't accept." She shook her head. "I remember very well what you told me when we got married. –And I also remember what I told you: I can handle the secrets, Clay …but I can't take the lies."_

She waited a long time for his response. When he spoke, it was in a voice more tired and weary than she had ever heard.

"Neither can I."

She didn't know what she had expected him to say, but that wasn't it. She turned back to him, and found that he was no longer standing behind her. He had broken the rules of his own paranoia and crossed to the large bank of windows that looked out into the spacious wooded grounds of their front lawn. He was staring blankly out into the night, searching for the demons that lay hidden in the darkness.

"Do you really think I like this job? Do you think I like what it's made of me?"

He shook his head grimly. "I hate it," he said fiercely. "I hate what I've become. Playing with people's lives like it was a game of chess …and for what? Does it really make a difference? Is the world really any safer? –Or is it worse, because in the end, maybe all we did was stir the pot?"

He laughed bitterly. "When you and I were kids, the worst thing we had to worry about was whether Fidel and the Russians were going to drop a bomb on us. At least then we knew what to be afraid of. Now we don't even have that luxury. Do you know that every time Penny brings home a permission slip to go on some class trip or another, it scares the hell out of me to sign it? I keep thinking of all the possibilities. A suicide bomber could hijack her bus, some damned terrorist could set off a canister of Ebola or Anthrax in a museum ventilation system …or fly a god damned plane into one of the monuments she's visiting –and that's just a tenth of the scary shit that flies across my desk every day." He drew a ragged breath. "But it's the world I've left my daughter. –Some difference I've made."

She frowned at him. "You can't blame yourself for all of that, Clay. It took more people than just you to get the world in the mess it is today. One man can't do it all."

"Maybe not," he conceded, "but I certainly played my part, didn't I?" He stared vacantly out into the night.

"Do you know how many people I've killed, Sarah?"

She felt an icy chill race down her spine at the eerie, toneless quality of his voice. "No," she said quietly.

"Neither do I," he whispered. "I've lost count."

He bit back a harsh laugh, tinged with hysteria. "Some of them didn't even die for a good reason. They were just some poor dumb bastard in the wrong place at the wrong time who saw too much. –Do you know how many men I've tortured and broken, getting them to talk? –Atef was the worst. I thought I was going to have to kill the son of a bitch."

He was wild and rambling now. It was as if a dam had burst inside of him, and it frightened her.

"Clay, stop."

But he didn't stop. He couldn't. He plunged on, his eyes locked fiercely on the window and she suddenly realized that he wasn't looking through the glass, but at it. It wasn't the monsters outside in the darkness he was searching for, it was the one reflected in the darkened glass …the one inside himself.

"We shocked him," there was no emotion in his voice. It was as if he had shut off a switch somewhere inside of himself. "Just like Fahd did to me, but we were a little more sophisticated about it. We used a defibrillator from the Medical Bay. …No burns. …No evidence."

"Clay…"

"—And you know what the worst part is?" He pulled back from the window and rounded upon her. His eyes were wild and dark and haunted.

"I liked it, Sarah," he said hoarsely. "God help me, but on some level I actually liked it."

He seemed to come back to himself then. He fell silent for a moment, his eyes scanning her wide, dark eyes and bloodless face. He expelled a long, slow breath. His cheeks puffed out slightly with the effort.

"You're right," he said at last. "I have been dishonest with you. I've lied... I've killed people. I've put men and women through such living hell that they've begged me for mercy. –And I didn't give it to them. I couldn't. Not until they gave me what I wanted. –And sometimes they couldn't give it to me …because they never had it to begin with."

His eyes were old, and tired, and infinitely sad. He laughed ruefully. "--And you want me to let you in. –Can you really blame me for wanting to keep you out?"

She didn't speak, just stared at him as he read the swiftly churning emotions in her eyes. It didn't take a mind reader to know what she was thinking. He'd seen that look on her face once before, years ago, on dusty track of abandoned road in Paraguay. He'd forced himself to look upon that expression, so filled with horror and fury and revulsion. She had pinned him with the weight of those furious brown eyes, and he had felt his control begin to crumble …just as it was crumbling now. He turned away quickly. He couldn't bear to see that look on her face and know that he was the cause of it.

The hand that settled upon his shoulder was firm and insistent as it drew him back to her. He closed his eyes tightly, unable to meet her gaze. Her fingers crept over him, smoothing along the column of his neck to caress his jaw and cup his cheek. He swallowed hard at the contact. His breathing was faster now, shallow and raspy and he was fighting hard to control it. Slowly, she brought her other hand up, framing his face between her palms. Stroking her thumbs across his cheekbones, she tilted his head down to hers and pressed her forehead to his. They stood that way for a long moment, each absorbing comfort from the other.

"Why is it you always try to scare me off?" she whispered. "You should know by now that it doesn't work."

He opened his eyes to look at her and she smiled wryly at him. "I'm not naïve, Clay. I know exactly what your work involves. –I've seen it firsthand, remember?"

He nodded. "And you hated it." He pulled away and looked down at her, his hazel eyes unreadable. "I'll never forget the look on your face after I shot that driver in Paraguay. You were horrified."

"You're right," she said simply. "I was. –By the act, Clay. By the necessity of it, --not by you."

He laughed grimly and turned back to the window. "Now who's the liar, Sarah? You were ready to punch my lights out, remember?"

"Because you weren't leveling with me," she shot back. "Just like you're not doing now."

More silence. He clenched his teeth tightly with the effort of maintaining it. He was so damned tired of this secret. He wanted to tell her –more than she knew. But he also knew that he couldn't. He closed his eyes and pressed his forehead against the cool pane of the window. He'd already said too much tonight. More than he should have. –More than was sanctioned. And he couldn't stop thinking of that look in her eyes –the same look she'd given him when he'd shot Alvaro all those years ago. He swallowed hard. Shit. The things he'd let slip tonight were just the tip of the iceberg. What would she say if he did tell her all of it? What would she do if he did tell her what really happened to Rabb?

_'She'd leave you.'_

He felt her touch again, this time between his shoulder blades as she stroked soothingly down the length of his back. He inhaled sharply, in a desperate effort to keep it all inside. He couldn't tell her. He couldn't.

She moved to stand beside him at the window. She didn't look at him; somehow she knew that he could not bear it. Instead, she gazed out into the darkness, seeking the lights of the city that somehow managed to twinkle through the heavy canopy of ancient oaks.

"You know what the worst part of this is?" She asked quietly.

"What?"

"You're standing right here beside me, but you might as well be on the other side of the world."

He risked a small glance at her face and his breath caught as he saw the silvery thin trail of a tear tracking its way down her cheek.

"I miss you, Clay." She said softly. "I miss my husband."

He reached out and cupped her cheek, brushing the dampness away with his thumb. He looked at her for a long moment, his green eyes dark and unreadable.

"I miss my wife," he said simply.

She stepped into his arms then, and he held her tightly, desperately to him.

"I wish you would talk to me," she whispered.

He drew a ragged breath and stepped back. "I can't," he said firmly, hating the strain that was evident in his voice.

"Because it's classified?" She pressed, knowing that she had him on the edge.

"No," he said softly, closing his eyes. He couldn't do it. He couldn't lie to her again.

            "Then why?" she demanded. "Why can't you tell me?"

            The truth, he thought dimly. He had to tell her the truth.

            "Because I love you."

            This time, the silence was hers. He found that he could not stand it, not with the way she looked at him, her eyes dark and searching and completely unrevealing of her thoughts.

            "Say something," he said at last.

            She held the silence a moment more. "You love me?" she said, her voice ringing with disbelief. "You lie to me and keep things from me and that's all that you have to say for yourself? –That you love me?"

            "Sarah…" 

            She shook her head slowly. "I'm sorry, Clay. That's just not good enough." 

He reached for her, but she sidestepped him neatly and stalked away into the darkness. He thought of going after her, but he didn't know what to say. By the time he did think of something, she was already gone. The guestroom door closed softly enough, but the turning of the lock was an audible sound in the stillness of the night. The sense of self-loathing washed over him, stronger now than ever. He turned once again to the window and stared back into the eyes of the monster within.


	13. Chapter 13

**Chapter Thirteen**

_Ten years earlier…_

SOMEWHERE IN NORTH KOREA

            The curtain of silence hung heavily across the small room, and Webb prayed that his practiced expression of inscrutability would hold as he struggled to organize his churning thoughts. There was a small camera mounted high up in the corner of the dingy ceiling and he had little doubt that even though Yi had left him for the moment, he was still watching --scrutinizing every move he made. Webb drew a small, shallow, silent breath to calm himself and let it out slowly, hoping that Yi would not notice how rattled he really was. –Not that it would come as any big surprise. He was wounded, captured, and being held prisoner in enemy territory on charges of espionage punishable by death. Who in the hell wouldn't be rattled?

            However, it wasn't the dire circumstances he found himself in that concerned him at the moment. It was the fact that Yi knew …everything. He'd been involved in his share of blown missions. Ironically enough, most of them had involved Rabb. _'--Which would explain your overwhelming urge to run like hell when he turned up in __Seoul__.'  _

Still, he had to admit that this was the most thoroughly screwed pooch he had ever seen. His cover was blown. His operative had been made. There was no doubt in his mind that the man who had stood at the other end of the table, grilling him for the last day and a half, knew the intimate details of the entire operation from start to finish. What's more he likely held the evidence to prove it –evidence that could turn the tides of diplomacy and World public opinion against the United States in the right situation. In the end, Webb knew, he really only had one thing riding in his favor: the very evidence which would hang him would hang General Yi Song-gye as well.

It had been sheer dumb luck when he had first encountered Yi ki-Chiang, at a guest lecture series he had given at Harvard eight years before. He had been home on long-term leave, slowly recovering from his tangle with Saddik Fahd. The neural damage had been severe, and the therapist had been raising hell with him and was reluctant to release him back to work for even light desk duty. As a result, his sick days had dwindled to almost nothing, and he'd been slowly going out of his mind when Kershaw had suggested an alternative option: a brief recruitment tour at his alma mater, given in the guise of a guest lecture seminar series on international diplomacy. The days would be brief –only an hour or two long at best—and he could still receive therapy and treatment at one of the private local clinics sanctioned by the agency.

He had jumped at the chance.

To his surprise, he had enjoyed the lecture series and the spirited debate with the eager graduate students. But the real purpose of his visit was never far from his mind, and he had scanned the rows of young faces that filled the lecture hall each morning, looking for that indefinable spark of potential. He surreptitiously scrutinized the foreign faces and accents, profiling them almost unconsciously and neatly dividing their potential into one of two categories: asset or threat. Each morning as he lectured on a variety of topics involving U.S. diplomacy in the post 9/11 world, he carefully assessed each face gauging their potential: analyst…translator…operative…and sometimes, possible terrorist. In the end, he usually just dismissed it as flights of his own fancy. He knew he was grasping at straws. He missed the game.

Even so, he couldn't completely ignore his instincts, and he always found himself coming back to one slim, sharp eyed Korean youth that was perpetually asking him the hard questions and who always seemed genuinely interested in his answers. There was something about the kid that set off his radar. He had told himself he was a fool, even as he ordered a routine background check through the usual agency channels. He really hadn't expected anything to come of it, and he wondered if anyone would even care enough to bother calling him back with the results.

He was wrong about that.

When the call came, it was from Kershaw himself. The kid's paper trail hadn't checked out. The South Korean birth certificates and travel visas had been passable window dressing, but the money trail that kept him in Harvard had led to North Korea.

_"He's the son of General Yi Song-gye," Kershaw informed him. "We believe his father is grooming him as his successor in the intelligence business."_

_"--And providing him with a Harvard education in order to better get inside our heads," Webb surmised._

_"In a nutshell," Kershaw agreed._

_"I don't think it's working out quite the way Yi has planned," Webb mused. "From what I've seen of Junior, he is captivated by our bourgeois lifestyle and he's becoming disenchanted with their big brothers to the north. He's starting to get some rather revolutionary ideas."_

_"Can he be turned?"_

_"Possibly," Webb allowed, "if he's handled carefully."_

_The silence at the other end of the phone was long and telling. _

_"Congratulations, Mr. Webb. You have just made yourself useful again."_

Recruiting Yi ki-Chiang had cemented his return to headquarters in Washington. Chiang had provided them with valuable information about North Korea's military and nuclear capabilities. It had been Chiang who had provided them with the first solid confirmation of North Koreas advanced nuclear weapons program, Chiang who had informed them of the secret deals with China, and Chiang who had alerted them to the fact that preparations for the invasion of South Korea were being made. 

Chiang was perhaps their most valuable asset in the North Korean government, and they had been careful to use him sparingly over the years for fear that suspicions would be aroused. But when the brewing conflict between the two Koreas finally came to a head, with the U.S. and China stalking protectively behind each of them like tigresses protecting their young, there had been no choice but to work every asset to maximum capacity –especially Chiang.

He regretted using Chiang so much –both for personal reasons as well as professional ones. The truth of the matter was, he liked the kid, and on a certain level Webb understood the sacrifice he was asking Yi ki-Chiang to make. He was asking him to betray his government, his country, and ultimately …his father, and Chiang would do it, because he loved them. It was the ultimate irony of the spy business: one man's patriot was another's traitor.

Unfortunately, there just hadn't been any other choice. He and Galindez had been in Asia for months assessing the readiness of each CIA station and outpost in all of the major countries. What they had found had been dismaying to say the least. The orient had always been a plum assignment, and true to form, Merrill Watts had handed out postings based more upon political favor than any real merit. That wasn't to say that all of the agents posted to that part of the world were incompetent or corrupt. Some were actually very good. Rush Hallowell, the Bangkok Station Chief, had been an absolute godsend and Scott Carpenter, who ran things out of Malaysia, was definitely on the ball. But it only took one person topple the entire network.

That person, as far as he could tell, was Allan Patterson, the head of the Seoul station. On the surface, Patterson seemed competent enough, but from the moment he'd met him, there had been something about the man he hadn't liked. He knew what it was. Patterson reminded him of Edward Hardy.

And like Hardy, Patterson hadn't exactly run the tightest of ships. In fact, to say that Patterson's ship was sinking would be an understatement. Intelligence was compromised. It was difficult to tell if the information coming in was good, or if it was disinformation being fed to them by the North Koreans. The only reliable source they had to confirm it was Chiang and the more they used him, the more his position would be exposed. He knew that Hallowell, and Carpenter and the guys in Beijing were doing what they could to mitigate the damage, but they were stop-gap measures at best. At this rate, it would be only a matter of time before their entire Asian network fell apart.

As a result, Webb and Galindez had taken one look and prepared to settle themselves in for the long haul. Like every other clean-up they had done, they had carried it out covertly, setting themselves up with run of the mill official cover as State Department officials. Those who were bold enough to ask were told that they were evaluating the escalating situation with North Korea and gathering data on the exact number of nuclear warheads the North Koreans had. In reality, they were studying the Seoul office. They had run a few operations, some real, some not –just to test for leaks and somewhere in the middle of what had turned out to be a three month operation, Webb had come to a realization:

He was losing his taste for the game.

He hadn't been home since Christmas, and that had been little better than an extended stopover between continents. Sarah had greeted him enthusiastically. --More enthusiastically than usual, in fact, and he suspected it might have had something to do with diverting his attention from the puppy and the new car she had purchased in his absence and somehow forgotten to mention to him. His mother, as usual, had wasted no time in summoning him out for their usual Sunday morning ride, where she doted on him at every opportunity. But he had taken it all in stride, for these were things to be expected. It was only Penny who had given him pause. Penny had been …aloof.

She had grown at least an inch or two since he had last seen her, and she was looking more like Sarah every day. But the shy little girl that had clung to Sarah's hand in the airport was a far cry from the bubbling toddler he had become used to chattering with over the internet web camera he carried with his laptop. It was the next day before she finally worked up the nerve to climb into his lap and curiously touch his face. Her cherubic face had corkscrewed into a question mark and she'd finally spoken.

"Da? Why aren't you in the 'puter?"

Sarah had laughed. He hadn't. It was only then that he'd realized the reason for Penny's shyness. She hadn't recognized him. To her, he had become just another talking head on a screen, like the TV anchorman or Mr. Rogers. She hadn't understood who he was. That was the moment when he knew he'd been gone too long. The next day, he'd walked into Kershaw's office and given his ultimatum: one way or another, the trip to Asia was going to be his last. When he finished his evaluation of the Southeast Asian Bureau, he was coming home …for good.

He should have known it would all go to hell. Murphy's Law would have dictated that –even without Rabb showing up. The Seoul office had been hemorrhaging information  and they hadn't even begun to get a handle on it when the North Koreans had suddenly announced their complete graduation into the nuclear arms race with the detonation of a nuclear missile at a testing site less than 50 miles from the DMZ. Attempts at diplomacy didn't last long, and within a matter of days U.S. forces were mobilizing for deployment and defense along the coastline of South Korea. In short, all hell had broken loose. The missile test had come as a surprise to everyone, and the Seoul station had been damned near the last to know. Hell, Rush Hallowell had heard about it in Bangkok before they did. Clay knew that for a fact. Rush had been the one who had called to tell him.

And then the Chinese had come into play. That hadn't come as a big surprise to anyone who had picked up a history book in the last fifty years or so, but the ramifications had sent every agent, operative and State Department official scrambling. A flood of agents had been sent in, but too many of them were green and untried, fresh from training at the Farm. None of them had the foggiest idea of where to start. The result had looked a little too much like a performance of the Keystone cops. 

Even worse was the fact that when the situation with the Chinese P-3 knock-off had registered on Company's radar, there wasn't a single agent in either Beijing or Seoul capable of taking on the job. He'd felt the sinking in the pit of his stomach when Galindez had dropped the photos on his desk. He was too goddamned old to be going into the field, but he had known even then that he was going to have to be the one to do it. Chiang was getting edgy. He would trust no one else.

Webb certainly couldn't blame him. Right now the only person he trusted on this whole damned continent was Galindez. And a lot of good that was going to do him, he thought sourly. He had little doubt that the boys back at Langley would waste no time in yanking his partner back home for a debriefing. By now, Galindez was probably thousands of miles away, rattling around in the back of one of the Company's unmarked C-130's bound for D.C. –And even if he wasn't, there wasn't going to be a hell of a lot that Victor could do by himself.

He had to face the facts, Webb thought grimly. He was on his own from here on out. No one would be riding to his rescue this time.

***

SEOUL, SOUTH KOREA

_Thirty-six hours earlier…_

            The boy was nervous. Rabb could feel the tension in the small lithe body that was tightly wedged into the back of the cab between himself and Galindez. The kid wasn't the only one on edge. It seemed to flow like an electric current, spreading from the boy to the men on either side of him and back again.

            The cab turned suddenly, winding its way through the filthy dilapidated warehouses that loomed on either side of the street to the docks. Rabb peered down into the small, anxious face.

            "Just where is this place we're going?"

            "Not much farther," Kim said, not really answering the question, and leaned into the front seat to speak to the cab driver in a short burst of Korean. The soft glow of the dashboard illuminated his features as he turned back to the two men with a faltering smile. "We be there soon."

Galindez frowned. He hadn't been crazy about this whole idea, and it was clear that he was liking it less as time went on, but the fact of the matter was that they just didn't have any better ideas. His gaze skittered from Rabb to the kid.

"Just who is this guy we're meeting anyway?"

"A representative," the boy said, pronouncing the word with careful pride. Rabb bit back a smile. It was probably one of the bigger English words the kid knew. "He is the Dragon's man in Seoul."

"What's his name?" Rabb asked.

Kim threw him a disdainful look. "He work for the Black Dragon. He does not need a name." The boy leaned back into the front seat and exchanged more words with the driver, indicating for him to turn.

Galindez shot Rabb another look. "Just who is this Black Dragon character, anyway?" He asked softly.

Rabb sighed. "According to the kid, he's a Chinese smuggler. A real big shot. Works pretty freely throughout the orient and has a raging business here on the peninsula. Crossing the DMZ is apparently not a problem for him. He's pretty well connected with both governments, and he's been known to slip a few refugees across the border every now and then. The kid seems to think he's our best shot."

Galindez raised an eyebrow at the kid. "Heavy connections," he murmured. "So what's this one going to set you back?"

Rabb smiled faintly as the boy turned back to face them, "Kim hasn't told me his price yet."

The boy's face darkened. "I have not yet put a price on this thing that you ask. It is very dangerous."

"How dangerous?" Harm asked warily. They needed to get to Webb, but he didn't want the kid getting hurt.

The boy shrugged. "Not so dangerous that I do not think I can do it," he said, "but dangerous enough." Kim considered the case for a moment. "This time Joe, I think you gonna owe me one."

The cab slowed and the boy leaned into the front seat once again, peering intensely through the window. "There," he said, his voice hushed. "It's that building, the tallest one at the end of the street."

Rabb's eyes flashed to Galindez. With a brief nod, Victor quietly opened the door and rolled out into the darkness. Rabb moved quickly, reaching behind the surprised boy to grab hold of the door handle and close it. He stole a glance out the back window, but Galindez had already melted into the darkness.

The boy stared at him with round frightened eyes. "Where he go!" Kim demanded, his English slipping in his excitement.

"To watch our backs," Rabb said softly.

The boy stared at him as if he were an imbecile. "This is the Dragon's man we are meeting! The most powerful man on the peninsula! The Dragon's men find him, they kill all of us!" Kim hissed.

"Then we'd better hope they don't find him," Rabb replied.

The cab rolled to a stop in front of the dilapidated three story warehouse. 

Rabb handed a small wad of money to the kid. "Tell him to wait."

The sharp burst of words that erupted from the cab driver at Kim's instructions had the boy turning uncertainly back to Rabb. Harm handed him more money. Placated, the cab driver tucked the money into his shirt.

"He say he stay ten minutes," Kim warned, "no more."

"Let's hope this guy doesn't have a waiting room," Rabb muttered and shut the door of the cab. He studied the rows of darkened windows and barred doors. "So where do we go?"

"There," Kim said, pointing to a shadowed recess in the wall of the building. Something stirred in the shadows, and Rabb felt himself wishing for his revolver. At Kim's insistence, he hadn't brought it with him. He resisted the urge to scan for Galindez. He had to trust that he was out there somewhere, watching their backs with that rifle he'd hidden in the loops of his trench coat. Taking a deep breath, he followed the boy.

The slight movement in the shadows grew larger as they approached, gradually taking human shape. As they drew near, Rabb saw that it was a woman, small and slight and dressed in loosely fitting black tunic and pants. She nodded slightly to the boy, and motioned for them to follow her.

Rabb half expected her to lead them inside, but to his surprise, she turned and walked them along the building and into a narrow alley. By the faint sliver of moonlight that filtered down between the buildings, he could just make out the looming shape of the black panel truck. The woman motioned them to stand aside and then walked up to the truck. She rapped twice on the side. There was a moment of silence, and then a faint whirr of electric motors as the rear of the truck slowly lowered, offering a ramp and view of the lighted interior within. Rabb stared in surprise. He had to admit it, he was impressed.

It was a slick operation, for a smuggler. Sleek, stylish and utterly mobile, it would be nearly impossible for the authorities to detect. The back of the truck had been outfitted as an office. Soft, plush carpeting covered the floor and small pieces of artwork had been fixed to the walls. A buttery soft white leather sofa and chair lined one side of the truck. The other was dominated by an elegant black lacquered desk. A laptop computer, open and running was the only item resting upon it, and behind the desk, seated in a modern looking black executive's chair was a lean, wiry looking Asian man of indeterminate age. This, Rabb thought, was obviously the man they had come to see.

The woman motioned them inside, following closely behind and indicated that they should take a seat. Pressing a button just inside the back of the truck, she raised the ramp, sealing them off from the outside world. Rabb glanced to Kim, uncertain what the proper protocol was for meeting with the most feared smuggler on the Korean peninsula.

The woman moved to a side board and returned with a tea tray. Setting out the cups, she carefully poured tea for each of them and then retreated to a small mat in the corner where she knelt and waited patiently, her expression carefully neutral. The man took a sip of his tea. Rabb and the boy followed suit. Setting down his cup, the man fired a sharp question in Korean.

Kim answered carefully, and then turned to Rabb. "He wants to know our business here."

"Tell him," Rabb said quietly. "Just like we talked about back at the hotel."

The boy nodded and turned back to the man. The conversation that followed was lengthy and completely incomprehensible to Rabb. Unable to follow the words, he watched the faces instead. Kim's expression was careful and earnest and he could tell by the formality with which the boy spoke that he was scared to death. But he had to hand it to the kid. He didn't falter. –Or at least, he didn't seem to. The man behind the desk was cool and indifferent, though Rabb though he detected the faintest gleam of interest beginning to grow in the dark eyes. Periodically, he would ask a question and the boy would answer, but for the most part he seemed content to let Kim lay their case before him.

As for the woman, she might not have been there at all. She sat silently in the corner, as still as a stone Buddah. Her face was expressionless and her eyes seemingly oblivious to the scene before her. Harm wondered if she was even listening. He wondered who she was. She seemed more like a slave than a servant, and he could not help but wonder if she was just another example of the merchandise in which these men traded.

Kim paused to look at Harm. "He says this thing which you ask may be possible, but it will cost much."

"How much?" Harm asked.

Another brief exchange. "One million of your American dollars," Kim replied.

Well, Harm thought grimly, that would just about empty Webb's piggy bank. "Done." He replied.

Kim relayed his assent. "He wants proof," Kim said, "that you can pay this amount."

Rabb smiled. "Our credit is good," he assured the boy. Swiveling his eyes to the man behind the desk, he slowly opened his jacket to reveal his interior breast pocket. With careful fingers, he extracted the slip of paper and handed it to Kim. "Tell him that's the name of the bank in Hong Kong and the account number. He can check the balance. When the job is done to our satisfaction, the money will be transferred to the account of his choice."

Kim and the man conversed further. "He says half up front, half when the transaction is complete."

Rabb smiled. "I wouldn't' have it any other way."

"There's more," Kim said uneasily. "He says this fee just covers the Dragon's services. It does not cover the cost of the officials they must buy."

Rabb bit back an involuntary groan. Terrific, --he should have known this was going too smoothly. "And what will that take?"

The boy queried the man, and then shook his head. "He doesn't know," he said at last. "But whatever it is that the North Koreans will want, he is sure that the price will be high."

"How high?" Rabb asked softly. Damn it. They just didn't have the resources to go any further.

The boy looked at him with serious eyes. "He says …more than you may be willing to pay."

***

SOMEWHERE IN NORTH KOREA__

_Forty-two Hours later_

            The door swung open unexpectedly and Clay raised his head to see Yi, as pristine as ever, standing in the doorway. He had lost all sense of time since they had brought him here, but it had been daylight when Yi had last left him and now it was daylight again. He had tracked the sun's path across the sky by the lengthening shadows of his barred window and judged that it was somewhere close to late afternoon, though how late, he could not be sure. He vaguely missed Sarah's impeccable sense of timing. She could have told him to the second, but he guessed that he had been here now for something going on three days and he could tell by the expression upon the General's face that Yi had at last come to some sort of decision.

            Yi seated himself once again in the chair at the opposite end of the table and looked at his prisoner expectantly. After a long moment's hesitation, Clay slowly unfolded himself from the reclining position he had taken on the floor against the wall and hobbled back to the chair in which he had earlier been bound. Yi's dark eyes swept speculatively over him, noting the clean white dressing that now bound the bullet wound in his thigh.

            "I trust you have received adequate medical attention?" The General's face bore no expression as he raised his eyes to meet Webb's.

            "Adequate," Clay agreed, privately thinking that there was a great deal of latitude in that particular word. The leg still hurt like hell, and there hadn't been much to use for antiseptic, but at least the bandage was clean.

            Yi nodded his satisfaction and leaned back in his chair, resting his palms flat upon the table before him. "We would not want it to appear that we have not made every effort to keep you alive."

            "How hospitable of you," Webb said dryly.

            Yi shrugged. "A matter of necessity, really. Normally, I would not bother, but it has come to my attention that word of your capture has reached the ears of the Supreme Leader. I am given to understand that he is negotiating to grant the Chinese an audience with you even as we speak."

            "That must put a crimp in your plans," Clay observed.

            The General smiled thinly. "It does advance the timeline substantially."

            "I see," Clay replied, all pretenses of cockiness gone from his voice. This was it then, the end of the road.

            "So, what's it going to be? --An unfortunate accident? –Or an attempted escape?" He was proud of the fact that he somehow managed to keep the bitterness out of his voice.

            The older man studied him thoughtfully. "That, Mr. Webb," he said at last, "is entirely up to you."

            He flipped open the ever-present manila file folder, and extracted a single sheet of unlined white paper. From his tunic, he withdrew a gold ballpoint pen and slid it, along with the paper, across the table towards Webb. "If you would consider making out a full confession of your crimes and be so good to include a list of your operatives inside our borders –excluding of course, the one with whom we are both so intimately acquainted—I might be willing to negotiate a more acceptable conclusion to this matter."

            Webb stared at him stonily. "No deal," he said tersely.

            Yi smiled benignly, "I thought as much, considering your reputation." He referred to the file again, opening it this time to a page somewhere near the middle of the thin stack of papers. "By all accounts you are a very dangerous man, a true warrior. Even our counterparts in the old KGB bore a healthy respect for you. Major Sokol wrote a very lengthy dossier." Yi hesitated, as if re-reading a small portion of the page before him. "He even went so far as to describe you as an 'honorable' man," Yi smiled thinly, "…so far as those in our line of work can be considered honorable."

            Clay could not quite suppress the small smirk that tugged at the corner of his mouth as he considered the irony in that. He'd said much the same thing in the dossier he'd written on Sokol. God only knew where his copies had ended up, probably with MI-5 and the Israeli Mossad to name a few. He wondered if some day Mark Sokol might find himself at the end of an interrogation table with Clayton Webb's words summarizing his character and career. He certainly hoped so. The son of a bitch deserved it. –Just as much as he did.

            "And all this time I thought he didn't like me." Clay mused, easing back in his own seat as he tried to discern exactly where this was leading. Yi was fishing for something, but for the life of him, he couldn't figure out what. 

            "He didn't like you," Yi snapped as he turned a page, "But he respected you."

            "The feeling was mutual," Webb murmured, thinking of his old adversary.

            "An honorable man," Yi muttered, half to himself, and then turned the full intensity of his obsidian gaze upon his prisoner. "I am curious to know what price such an 'honorable' man must pay to be able to purchase the honor of my son."

            Ah, so that was it, Clay thought. They had finally reached the crux of the matter.

            "You want to know how much I paid him to spy for my country?"

            Something flared briefly in Yi's eyes, then slowly cooled and hardened. The General nodded slowly.

            "Yes."

            "Nothing," Clay replied.

            The black gloved fist lashed out in a lightning move, striking the table with a blow that echoed loudly in the barren chamber. 

            "Liar!" Yi hissed. "You seduced him with your capitalist greed! You bribed him with the wealth your country's rich industrialists have made off the backs of Asians! You convinced him to whore for your money!"

            "Chiang didn't do it for the money," Clay said quietly.

            "Then what did he do it for?" Yi sneered derisively.

            "He did it for his country," Clay replied. "He did it for his people."

            This time the fist lashed out across the small table, knocking Clay from his chair. The blow blinded him with white-hot pain and he felt a dull ringing in his ears as he struggled to right himself. He brought a hand to his lip, carefully touching the fresh blood that welled at the corner of his mouth. His murky green eyes narrowed upon Yi, and in spite of the pain, he managed to smile. That answer, it seemed, had scored a direct hit through the General's armor.

            "This is his country!" Yi spat, and gestured wildly in the direction of the window, where the thin faced peasants toiled in the distant fields. "Those are his people! He has betrayed them!"

            "He's trying to save them," Clay gasped, "the only way he knows how."

            His head was still pounding and he felt too unsteady to try to regain his feet. Instead, he settled for scooting himself across the floor and easing himself back against the wall where he openly studied the duplicate versions of Yi that swam before his unfocused eyes.

            "Think about it, General. The Chinese cut you off for bad credit for the last ten years and now they suddenly turn around and lend you billions of dollars worth of food and weapons to outfit your army, not to mention the use of their latest new military toys? Haven't you asked yourself what they want out of this deal? –Chiang has."

            "They want to help us remove the capitalist oppressors from our continent and reunify our country." Yi said, spouting the party line.

            Clay scowled. "Under _your_ terms. The millions of Koreans who live South of the 38th Parallel might have a slightly different vision for reunification." He shrugged painfully, "But that's really beside the point, isn't it?"

            "And just what do you believe the point to be, Mr. Webb?" Yi asked in cold, polite tones.

            Webb smiled grimly. "Come on General, much as you hate to admit it, you and I both know this really isn't about North and South Korea. This is about the two big kids on the block finally squaring off to see if there's going to be a new King of the Mountain."

            Webb shook his head. "Don't you get it? The Chinese have set you up…and us as well."

            Yi looked intrigued. "Go on," he said slowly, taking the chair Webb had been seated in and straddling it, unmindful of the dried blood that smeared the back and the seat. 

            "It's a power play," Webb said irritably, disgusted that Yi could not realize it for himself, "plain and simple. China has the largest standing army in the world. What they don't have is the super-power status and prestige of the United States --and they want it."

He hesitated, "It's really quite brilliant in its simplicity. Everyone knows that our military forces are stretched thin in the Middle East. –Not to mention the fact that most of Europe is still plenty irritated by the way we went into Iraq so quickly. We're over-extended and we're vulnerable. –And we're also obligated by our treaty with the South Koreans to protect them if things get hot along the DMZ."

            Yi offered him a bland smile. "You really believe that all of this is some sort of grand conspiracy to bring your country to its knees?"  
            Webb smirked. "Isn't it?"

            Yi laughed, but there was no real humor in his tone. "-You Americans," he shook his head in the picture of bemusement, "…always so arrogant --and so afraid. You seem to believe that everything is about you." Yi snorted. "And they think that _my people are paranoid!"_

            He leaned in closer, his dark eyes gleaming. "Such a fanciful tale, it is something right out of the pages of one of your American spy novels, is it not? It sounds very much like something that writer –what is his name— …Clancy would have written."

            Webb offered Yi a narrow smile. "Tom Clancy once wrote about a terrorist taking over a jet-liner and crashing it into the Capitol. We all know how fanciful and unlikely that idea was, now don't we?"

            Yi nodded. "Everyone gets lucky now and then."

            Webb shifted slightly. "The Chinese are using you, General. They're setting you up as cannon fodder. They know that if you do mix it up with us, our tanks and planes will be rolling up your borders so fast it will make your head spin. –In fact, they're counting on it."

            "And once again the world will see America's arrogance and greed as it topples another sovereign nation." Yi said coldly.

            Webb nodded, accepting the statement for the truth that it held. "And when China comes riding to your rescue, and takes control of your country for you, no one will protest. If they play their diplomatic cards right, they could even turn both the U.N and the Economic Union to their side."

            "And put an end to America's choke-hold upon world policy," Yi added. "I confess I really am not seeing a down side here, Mr. Webb."

            "The down side, General, is that millions of Koreans are going to die, soldiers and civilians –on both sides of the DMZ. And when all of this is over, your government will be in a shambles, the Chinese will be in control, and what's left of your country won't be worth keeping."

            "Are these the lies you used to turn my son?" Yi demanded.

            Clay shook his head. "I didn't have to lie to Chiang. I didn't have to tell him anything. He came to us." He drew a deep breath. "Chiang did what he did because he saw all of this for himself. He understood what was happening. He didn't want his people to die as pawns for the Chinese. He was trying to save his country."

            Yi sighed heavily. "Then my son is a fool," he said with quiet bitterness, "…and a coward as well."

            Webb's face must have revealed a glimmer of his surprise, for the General raised his chin and smiled thinly.

            "Do you think I am so old I cannot see what is happening in my own country? I can, but it does not matter. Whether or not we fight this war, our people will die anyway. I say it is better that it be quick and brutal at the hands of our enemy, than the long agonizing death we have endured these past twenty years."

            He rocked back in the chair. "Do you know how many have starved to death because of your trade sanctions? Do you know how many of our children have perished from malnutrition and the lack of proper medical care? Have you any idea of the numbers of our revered elders who have frozen to death in their beds for want of fuel to keep their fires?"

            "Two million," Clay said softly, "according to the last U.N. estimates."

            "Try three!" Yi snapped. "And more are dying every day!"

            The General rose slowly from the chair, and for the first time, Webb thought he actually looked his sixty-odd years and more.

            "I am not blind, Mr. Webb," Yi said heavily. "I know what this war will bring. I understand what our agreement with China must cost us, perhaps better than you. Sooner or later, they will want their money back, and once again we will be unable to pay it. But I would rather our sons die like men than continue to live as beggars in the street."

            Webb was silent for a moment. "I suppose I can understand that."

            Yi nodded. "Of course you can. You are a man –and a warrior." The black eyes drilled green, measuring and assessing. "And perhaps," Yi murmured, "You should have the right to die like one."

            Crossing back to the other side of the table, he gathered his papers back into the file folder. "The Chinese agents will arrive tomorrow at sunset." Yi glanced down at the pen and the single sheet of writing paper still lying in the middle of the table. Slowly, he picked up the blank sheet of paper and returned it to the folder.

             "You have a choice, Mr. Webb." He said softly, his tone was almost conversational. "You have until tomorrow afternoon to make it."

            "And that would be?"

            Yi's eyes locked upon the pen, but he made no move to pick it up. "In our culture, it is a matter of honor that a warrior should take his own life in order to deny his enemy the honor and glory of doing so." The General looked up from the object on the table, and Webb suddenly found himself caught in the cold darkness of those deep black eyes.

            "You may die by your own hand …or by mine." Yi said at last. "I leave the decision entirely up to you."

            Without another word, Yi Song-gye turned and stalked out of the chamber, leaving Clayton Webb to contemplate his fate …and the slim, gold object that remained in the middle of the table.


	14. Chapter 14

**Chapter 14**

MEMORIAL DAY

31 MAY, 2021

08:45 ZULU

GALINDEZ RESIDENCE

GEORGETOWN

            The pillow caught him square in the chest, jolting him to instant wakefulness.

            "Victor! Get up! We are going to be late!"

            Rolling to his side, Victor squinted at the clock on the bedside table. He glared up at his wife. "What are you talking about? The party's at eleven. It's not even nine yet. We still have two hours at least."

            "Yeah, and I need one of them to make the appetizers." She shot her husband an exasperated glance. "I knew I should have gone with you to the store. You forgot to buy the cream cheese like I asked. I need you to run down to the market and get some."

            "All right," he grumbled, flinging back the covers. "What else do you need?"

            "The list is on the counter," she flung clothes in his direction.

            Muttering under his breath, he pulled on pants and a shirt and shoved his bare feet into a pair of loafers. There hadn't been any damned cream cheese on the list she'd given him last night. He was sure of it. –Not that it would matter to Paulina. It was still going to be his fault.

            Stumbling down the hallway, he passed through the kitchen and paused to pour a cup of coffee. He continued on to the front hall, snagged his jacket from the closet, reached for his keys …and swore. They weren't on the hook.

            "Honey!" he called, patting down his jacket pockets. "Have you seen my keys?"

            "Did you look on the hall table?"

            He glanced to the low side table just inside the front door.

            "Nada!" he replied.

            "You look on the desk?" She hollered. "Sometimes you leave them there."

            "Terrific," he muttered, half under his breath. If they were on the desk, he'd never find the damned things.

            He crossed the hallway to the den and began sifting through the stacks of letters and papers strewn across the desk. He was still working his way through the layers when the doorbell rang.

            "Honey, can you get that?"

            There was no response. He continued sifting. The doorbell rang again.

            "Honey!" He shifted a newspaper and saw the familiar glint of his Marine Corps key tag. Snatching up the keys, he turned back to the front hall as the door bell rang again.

            "Alright! I'm coming already!" he growled and stalked towards the door. Wrenching the knob, he flung it open and froze.

            "Hello, Gunny." Harmon Rabb said.

***

01:17 ZULU

31 MAY, 2021

GALINDEZ RESIDENCE  
GEORGETOWN

            Victor gasped and sat bolt upright in bed, his heart thudding wildly in his own ears. Beside him, Paulina stirred and fixed him with a mingled look of confusion and concern.

            "You all right, baby?" she murmured.

            "Yeah," he said softly. "It's nothing. Go back to sleep."

            "Bad dreams?" she whispered, snuggling a little closer to him. 

            "More like old ghosts," he replied, and rolled over to kiss her soundly on the forehead. "_Es nada, mi amor._ --Go back to sleep."

            He could tell she wanted to protest, but her eyelids drooped. "All right," she murmured and burrowed back into her pillow. He waited until her breathing changed to the deep, even rhythm that assured him she was asleep, then carefully lifted the covers and crawled from the bed. He stood for a moment at the small bedroom window and looked out into the empty street below. It was either very early, or very late. He wanted a drink. He rubbed at the goose bumps that still covered his arms.

            He didn't want to be alone.

            He picked up his cell phone from the dresser and dialed the number without really thinking about it. If he'd bothered to look at the clock, he might have reconsidered, but he was operating on instinct now. The rules of logic and convention just didn't apply. He held the phone to his ear, taking it on faith that there would be an answer. The call picked up on the second ring.

            "Hello?" Webb's voice was rough and tired, but there was something in his tone that suggested he had already been up.

            "What are you doing up so late?" Galindez chided with a faint grin.

            "Answering crank calls," Webb retorted.

            "Grumpy, grumpy," Victor observed, his grin broadening. "What's the matter? Sarah kick you out of bed?"

            There was a silence at the end of the line. Shit. He hadn't been thinking. He must have hit that one on the head.

            "Not exactly," Webb muttered. Galindez could hear the tell-tale squeak of leather as Webb shifted slightly.

            _'--Which means she's in the guest room and he's on the couch. Damn, they must have had it out tonight.'_

            "You tell her?" Victor asked, his voice dropping even lower as he stepped softly from the bedroom and slipped down the hall to the kitchen. He opened the refrigerator and checked the contents. Double damn. Paulina had forgotten to buy beer.          

"No." Webb replied, his voice lowering as well.

            "You really should tell her," Victor said, grabbing the carton of milk and searching the cabinets for a clean glass. "This is starting to get out of hand."

            "So what's your story, Princess?" Webb said testily. "Somebody put a pea under your mattress? Or did Paulina find out when you really got back to town?"

Victor paused. "More like the boogey man paid a visit," he said.

"Ah." Webb replied.

Silence lingered between them for a moment. It was oddly filled with understanding, and neither man felt compelled to break it.

"Do you ever think about it?" Galindez asked finally.

"About what?"

"Korea."

"All the time." Webb said at last.

"Do you think…" he inhaled sharply and his fingers clenched the phone. "Do you think we did the right thing?"

There was another long silence. "I don't know," Webb murmured.

"It's going to come out, Clay. We both know this can't keep forever."

"I know."

"What are we going to do?"

"We live with it."

"Mind telling me how?"  
            Webb sighed. "Go back to sleep, Galindez."

Victor smiled wryly. "You first," he said, and ended the call.

***

_Ten years earlier…_

26 MAY, 2011

11:18 ZULU

SEOUL, SOUTH KOREA

OFFICE OF THE AMERICAN AMBASSADOR

            The soft vibration of the cell phone against his hip was a welcome reprieve from Allan Patterson's droning voice as he delivered the intelligence briefing and gave his assessment of the North Korean situation. Of course, it was all bullshit, Victor thought as he discreetly reached for the phone and flipped it open. Of course the American Ambassador, the various assembled military advisors and the Secretary of State –who was participating in the meeting via a secure satellite link—were all eating it up. In other words, it was business as usual.

            Sneaking a quick glance below the table, he read the digital screen. It was a text message. He pressed the receive button and glanced at the words that appeared on the screen.

            THIS GUY IS FULL OF IT.

            His eyes swiveled up and across the table to meet Harmon Rabb's knowing blue gaze. Rabb held a pen in one hand, which he was idly tapping against a legal pad, but the other rested below the table. Galindez fought back a grin.

            WHAT WAS YOUR 1ST CLUE? he keyed back. He saw a small flash that might have been a grin tug at the corner of Rabb's mouth.

            Feeling a little too much like a schoolboy passing notes in class, he felt the phone vibrate again and glanced down to read Rabb's next missive.

            HIS EST. TROOP STRENGTH OFF 30%

            Galindez thought about this for a moment.

            HIGH OR LOW?

            LOW.

            Victor sunk a little farther back in his chair. Well, hell. He really shouldn't be all that surprised. From what he could see, this guy had spent most of his time here underestimating the North Koreans. The trouble was that out of all the people at this table, he and Rabb were the only ones who knew it. Still, something of his thoughts –or at least his concentration— must have shown upon his face for he felt the Ambassador's gaze level upon him as Patterson concluded his report.

            "Do you have something to add, Mr. Galindez? I seem to recall you've recently spent a great deal of time out in the field."

            Victor shifted uncomfortably in his seat. Shit. When it came to the meetings with the big boys, he'd always been content to let Webb do the talking. After all, they seemed to speak the same language, and it was what Webb did best. But Webb wasn't here, and the incompetent asshole at the end of the table was more than partly responsible for that.

            He leaned forward in his chair, fully aware that he could be about to screw what had been a fairly promising career with the CIA. He didn't give damn. Patterson's intel was faulty. He couldn't let that slide.

            "Actually, sir, I think Mr. Patterson's assessment may be overly optimistic."

            "How so, Mr. Galindez?" The Secretary of State's clipped New England Accent fairly snapped over the speakers.

            "Mr. Webb and I have reason to believe that the North Korean's nuclear program is much more advanced than we have been led to believe. One of Webb's sources indicated to him that they may be in possession of more advanced fuel cell and guidance technology than we had thought. It's not inconceivable that they may have built ICBM's."

            "Holy Mother of God," the Ambassador breathed. "Are you saying they could launch an attack on the United States directly?"

            "Information on ICBM technology and nuclear guidance systems has been strictly regulated since the Soviet disarmament treaty and the end of the Cold War," the Secretary of State said briskly. "Granted, they could have developed it on their own, but their program has been a fledgling one at best. This is too big of a jump, even for them. Where did they get this technology?"

            "From us," a new voice said, cutting crisply over the speaker. Galindez glanced up down in surprise to the small liquid crystal video screen that was inset into the conference table before him. Harrison Kershaw's crisp, austere features stared back at him. He felt the knots of tension pull tighter in his stomach. He should have known. The old man was always watching. But whether or not this was a good thing, he still wasn't sure.

            Kershaw leaned back in his black leather chair, the familiar nightscape of Langley's offices and rooftops visible in the darkened window behind him. The soft glow of his computer monitor was reflected in the small round lenses of his spectacles and caught the silver highlights in his silver blonde hair. His dark three piece suit seemed slightly rumpled, but he was the perfect picture of calm as he stared into the camera.

            "Of course we didn't give it to them. We gave it to the Chinese. –Part of Clinton's campaign fundraising fire sale, I believe. But then the Chinese seem to have become quite generous in sharing with their little friends to the South as of late."

            A flurry of muttered curses flew around the table and Galindez exchanged another look with Rabb. The meeting was finally getting interesting.

            "Damn it Harry!" The Secretary of State snapped, "Is there anything of ours that the Chinese _don't_ have? –Why in the hell are we just finding out about this now?"

            Kershaw smiled faintly. "Really, Paul, it was hardly a state secret. The story ran on the front page of USA Today for Christ's sake. –But at the time everyone was so much more interested in what was on Monica's little blue dress that nobody gave it a second thought."

            "Until now," the Ambassador muttered, his face taking on a sickly shade of gray. He rounded on Patterson. "What about it, Allan? Why are we just hearing about this now?"

            Galindez, who had been studying Patterson's reaction, watched as the Station Chief's initial nervousness faded and a smug look crept into his eyes.

            _'Shit,' he thought __'here it comes…'_

            "With all due respect to Mr. Galindez, I believe he may be hasty in his assessment," Patterson said smoothly. "The information that he and Webb have been able to gather on the missile program comes from a single source within the North Korean government. –One whose information my sources have not been able to confirm."

            "Which source?" Kershaw asked, his voice sharp.

            "Dante, sir." Victor replied.

            Kershaw frowned as he considered this. "I am familiar with Dante," he said at last. "I wouldn't turn my nose up at his tidbits, Allan. He's very well placed, and he has yet to steer us in the wrong direction."

            "Even so, Harry," The Secretary of State broke in, "I think we want something a little more solid than hearsay based upon the word of a single man in the North Korean government. –No matter how well placed he might be. What do your sources say about the nuclear program, Mr. Patterson?"

            Patterson shrugged, clearly more at ease now that the ball was back in his court. "There has been some elevated activity around their reactors and processing plants. But all indications show that they are focusing on bombs and missiles with a short-range capability. –Nothing to get too excited about. If they're gunning for anyone, it's the South Koreans."

            "You might want to become a bit more excited, Allan," the Ambassador said dryly, "considering that at the moment _we_ are in South Korea."

            Patterson flushed slightly. "Yes sir," he mumbled and shot a quick glance back down at his papers. "Nevertheless, I really don't believe it's all that much of an issue. My people tell me—

            "Your people are compromised," Galindez snapped. "Two of your drivers have no traceable history prior to 1992. Your translator's boyfriend is a refugee from Pyongyang, and your 'guide,' Kwan, is a two-bit smuggler who'll sell anything or anyone to the highest bidder!"

            The Ambassador looked from one man to the other. "These are serious accusations, Mr. Galindez."

            "I know," Victor said grimly, showing no intent of backing down.

            Patterson blanched, his face fading chalky white with rage. "What the hell is this?" he hissed, "A witch hunt? You're supposed to be spying on their people, Galindez, not ours. –Maybe if you'd been paying a little more attention to your own business, then Webb—

            "Then Webb what?" Victor ground out, his voice held a soft, deadly quality.

            A lethal silence fell between the two men. It was broken at last by the Ambassador, who looked from Patterson to Galindez.

            "Just where exactly _is_ Mr. Webb?" he demanded.

            "Missing, sir," Victor said, his eyes never leaving Patterson's. "He and Patterson's man Kwan went in four days ago to meet Dante and take out the P-3. Kwan came out. Webb didn't."

            Patterson flushed at the obvious implication. "For all you know, your man Dante could be the reason for that!"

            "Funny," Victor said easily, not giving an inch. "But I still like your man Kwan for it myself."

            "Let me get this straight," The Secretary of State broke in abruptly. "Are you saying that Webb has been captured?"

            "Or killed," Victor said tersely.

            "Well, wherever he is, I doubt he's on a holiday," Kershaw said aridly, his displeasure clearly directed at both of his agents. 

Victor felt his anger recede as foreboding flooded in. There would be hell to pay for this little go-round, of that he had no doubt. Kershaw would not soon forgive so public an airing of the Company's dirty laundry. He was having a hard enough time rebuilding the Agency's reputation as it was. Leaning back in his chair, Galindez idly wondered which one of them was going to get the free plane ticket to Tierra del Fuego. With his luck, Kershaw would send them both. At the moment, he really couldn't think of anything worse than to be exiled to the place Webb still referred to as the "worst hell-hole on earth" with a prick like Allan Patterson.

"Mr. Galindez," Kershaw drew out each syllable in a way that made Victor want to cringe. "Are there any other facts you wish to add that are germane to the discussion at hand?"

He could not miss the note of warning in the DCI's voice. _'Well hell,'_ he thought grimly, _'I might as well go for broke and piss away the rest of my career while I'm at it.'_

He opened his mouth to speak, prepared to launch into the further discoveries he and Webb had made that contradicted Patterson's sunshine and roses report, but Rabb somehow beat him to the punch.

"Actually, sir, I believe I have something to add."

All heads swiveled in Rabb's direction, and he held up a CD jewel case. "Sir?" He shot a glance to the Ambassador. "If I may?"

"Of course, Captain," The Ambassador replied.

Rising from his seat, Rabb walked to the small computer at the foot of the conference table and loaded the CD into the drive. Arial photographs appeared on everyone's individual monitor, as well as on the large digital flat screen that hung on the wall at the end of the conference room. Rabb selected one of the photographs, and enlarged it.

"These were taken two days ago by Navy Intelligence," he said. Using a laser pen, he highlighted a line of small black shadows.

"Tanks," the Marine Corps military advisor murmured as he frowned down at the screen. "They appear to be much closer to the DMZ than we believed."

"And there are more of them," the Army advisor put in.

Rabb nodded. "Yes sir. Not to mention two more armored divisions behind them. We also estimate another three battalions of infantry, and there are indications of additional aircraft and submarines in the area. We believe it's safe to assume that more are on the way."

"How many more?" The Secretary of State demanded.

Rabb flashed a glance towards the glowering Patterson. "With all due respect to the CIA, sir, we believe that they have underestimated North Korean troop strength by nearly thirty percent."

The Marine Colonel's gaze flicked coolly from Patterson to Rabb. "That's a significant amount, Captain."

Rabb nodded. "It is."

The Secretary of State's sigh was audible over the speakers. "Gentlemen, this changes everything. I believe we may have to reconsider our strategy."

The military advisor's nodded their agreement.

The Secretary of State leaned into his camera. "I have to brief the President first thing in the morning. –Harry, I trust I will see you there?"

"You will," Kershaw affirmed.

State nodded. "Very well, --Stephen, I suggest that in the meantime you meet with Naval Intelligence and our military advisors and discuss our options. You and I will touch base later in the morning."

It missed no one's notice that the CIA had not been invited, but the Ambassador offered a wry smile in the strained silence that followed. "Would that be my morning or yours?"

"Mine," State said brusquely. "Sorry Stephen," it looks like we're all going to be pulling some late nights from here on out."

"Yes sir," the Ambassador said. With a nod of dismissal, State blinked out and everyone began to filter slowly from the room, eager to escape the aftermath of the confrontation.

Not all of them were quite so lucky.

"Mr. Galindez, would you be kind enough to stay for a moment?" Kershaw's voice fairly cracked across the speakers.

Patterson glanced uneasily up into the camera that was mounted above the table. "Do you want me to stay as well, sir?"

"No, Allan. I don't think that will be necessary." Kershaw said easily. He offered his trademark flinty smile and Galindez watched as Patterson's discomfort faded quickly to smug satisfaction. "I'll call you in an hour or so to discuss our next moves."

"Yes sir," Patterson said eagerly, and picked up his briefcase. He stepped past Galindez with a satisfied look. Victor bit back a sigh. It looked like this ass chewing was all his.

            At the far end of the table, Rabb finished extracting the CD from the computer and returned it to his brief case. He flashed Galindez a sympathetic look as he headed towards the door. "Vic, I'll uh wait for you outside."

            "Actually, Rabb I would prefer it if you would stay," Kershaw said.

            "Of course, sir," Rabb said, a look of mild confusion crossing his face.

            "Sir," Victor began, miserably trying to frame a suitable apology or explanation.

            "Mr. Galindez," Kershaw said tiredly, slouching back in his chair, "for a man who is supposed to be halfway back to Washington, you're being awfully presumptuous, don't you think?"

            "Sir?"

            "Shut up, Galindez," Kershaw rapped. The cool gray eyes flashed with irritation. "Tell me, what part of 'get your ass back to D.C.' did you not understand?"

            Mercifully, Kershaw waved him off before he was forced to come up with a response to that. "Never mind," the DCI said, removing his glasses and rubbing absently at the bridge of his nose. "The damage is done. I expect I'll be hearing from the President before breakfast."

            Kershaw dropped his glasses on his desk blotter. "You're sure about these numbers, Rabb?"

            "As sure as I can be without going down and counting them myself," Rabb replied.

            Kershaw drummed his fingers on the edge of his desk. "You should thank the Captain, Victor. He's the only reason I'm not buying you a plane ticket to the South Pole right now."

            "Yes sir." Galindez replied.

            Kershaw was silent for a long moment. "Tell me, what's your read on Patterson?"

            Victor shifted uncomfortably. "Webb didn't trust him, sir."

            Kershaw scowled. "Webb doesn't trust anyone. That's why I picked him for this assignment. I'm asking _you_, Galindez. What do you think of Patterson? Is he dirty?"

            Victor drew a deep breath. "No sir, I don't think he's turned," he said finally. "But I do think he's hiding something, and I'm positive that the leak that blew Webb's cover came from his office. Outside of Captain Rabb and myself, the only other people who even knew Webb was going in to North Korea were Hallowell and Carpenter and they're both solid. –I'd stake my life on it."

            "You may very well have to," Kershaw said grimly. He lurched forward suddenly, picked up his glasses and put them back on. "I'm going to leave you here in Seoul indefinitely. Someone in our house has been telling lies, Victor. I want to know who."

            His gaze shifted slightly. "Captain Rabb, right now your resources appear to be more reliable than our own. I trust the Aurora project is going well?"

            "Yes sir," Rabb replied.

            "Well, considering that Naval Intelligence 'borrowed' that particular little gem and your expertise in it from us, might you be so kind as to keep Galindez apprised and offer him a little fact-checking assistance whenever possible?"

            "Of course, sir."

            Victor shifted nervously. "Sir, what about Webb's family?"

            Kershaw grimaced. "Yes, he murmured, I had nearly forgotten. They will have to be contacted of course."

            "Sir, I was hoping we might be able to wait a little longer, until we know for sure."

            A look of genuine regret passed over the DCI's face, but he quickly tamped it down beneath his steely façade. "Mr. Galindez, I don't like handing out the bad news any more than you do, but the fact remains that they will have to be told. It's bad enough that we can never tell the families the details in these cases, but we owe it to our people not to leave their loved ones hanging indefinitely. I'll notify HR of the situation. Colonel Webb will be notified before the weekend is out."

            Victor snuck a glance at Rabb from the corner of his eye. The naval officer's face showed almost no expression.

            "Understood, sir," Victor said quietly, "I just hate the thought of her hearing it from strangers."

            Kershaw sighed. "We do have a protocol for this, Galindez, one that easily would have remedied that problem if you had just gotten on the damned plane." 

            The DCI momentarily closed his eyes and bowed his head. It was not a clear cut expression of sentiment, but something in the gesture made Victor suspect that the loss of Webb had hit even Kershaw harder than he wanted to admit.

            "Do you have a recommendation?" He asked finally.

            Victor hesitated as he ran through the options. He briefly considered Catherine Gale, or perhaps Beth O'Neill and was surprised when Rabb suddenly spoke.

            "If I may, sir, Admiral Chegwidden might be a good choice. I understand he's still very close to the Webbs."

            "Chegwidden's not CIA." Kershaw reminded them. "If I recall correctly, he's not even active duty. Didn't he retire last year?"

            "Yes sir," Rabb confirmed, "But he is a friend and he did have the clearance. It's not like he didn't know what Webb really did for a living."

            "Very well," Kershaw said, "I'll call A.J. this afternoon and ask him to go with me."

            "With you sir?" Galindez said, more than a little surprised.

            Kershaw stared hard into the camera for a moment. "This one I intend to handle personally."

            The screen went black abruptly as Kershaw ended the transmission.

            Galindez let out a long slow breath and shot a sideways look at Rabb. "Thank you," he said quietly. "I do believe I owe you one for that."

            Rabb smiled slightly. "My pleasure, Gunny," he replied. "Besides, Patterson is an idiot. I can't just stand back and watch him get people killed with bad information."

            "Yeah?" Galindez grinned, "Well then the Marines standing out there on the DMZ owe you one too, but I'm still gonna buy you lunch."

            "Actually," Rabb said, glancing at his watch, "I've already got a lunch date."

            "With who?"

            "Our friend from the waterfront," Rabb said, half under his breath.

            "You want me to tag along?"

            Rabb's smile broadened. "I thought you would never ask."

26 MAY, 2011

13:30 ZULU

SEOUL, SOUTH KOREA

            The restaurant was busy, but they had no trouble in spotting the woman who waited for them, just inside the front door. Wordlessly, she bowed slightly to both Rabb and Galindez, but ignored the boy. Turning on her heel, she indicated for them to follow with the slightest tilt of her head. She was dressed as she had been the night before, in a simple black blouse and pants. Her small bare feet were shot in black satin slippers that made no sound on the tiled floor as she led them from the main dining room to the back of the restaurant.

            Pausing at the threshold of a private dining room, she stopped and indicated that they should enter. Rabb looked from her to Galindez, and then warily parted the beaded curtain and stepped through. The room was painted brilliant shade of oriental red, but the effect was softened by the dark ebony furniture and the dozens of small candles that lit the room. A low table was positioned at the center of the room. Seated at it, waiting patiently, was the man they had met the night before.

            Approaching the table, Rabb acknowledged the man with a slight tilt of his head and took a seat directly across from him. Galindez and the boy followed, taking positions on either side. After a moment the woman appeared again, and once more embarked upon her careful ritual of pouring the strong dark tea. She brought them each bowls of fish and rice wordlessly the all began to eat. Rabb and Galindez ate with the general caution they used whenever sampling any foreign foods. The boy, however, dug in with relish, and Rabb had to fight back a grin. The intensity of the situation certainly had not dimmed Kim's appetite any. From the corner of his eye, he saw Galindez take another sip of his tea, and fought back a grin. Korean food was spicy, even by Galindez's unusually high standards.

            When the bowls were empty, the woman returned to clear them away and poured more tea. They each took a sip, and set down their cups, waiting in expectant silence for the opening move.

            After a moment the Dragon's man spoke, his eyes never left Rabb's face, although his words were directed to the boy. Kim listened intently, and then turned to Rabb carefully repeating each word.

            "He say they have found the merchandise you are looking for. It will be very difficult to obtain. Time is running out, and soon it will no longer be available."

            "How soon can we go after it?" Rabb asked.

            The boy turned back to the smuggler, spoke and listened.

            "He say we must go tonight. Tomorrow will be too late."

            "Time is of the essence," Rabb agreed softly.

            The smuggler spoke again and the boy turned back to Rabb. "He say the Dragon's price for this handling this package is one million dollars. –But you must pay more. The North Koreans he must deal with are not so willing to give up their prize."

            Victor looked uneasily at Rabb. One million dollars was all that was in the account. They had nothing else to deal with. –And there was still the chance that it could be a set-up. "How can we be sure that this merchandise is exactly what we're looking for?"

            The boy relayed the question to the Dragon's man. The smuggler smiled thinly, and plucked at the lapel of his suit coat. Reaching carefully inside the breast pocket, as Rabb had done the night before when extracting the paper with the account number for the bank in Hong Kong, he extracted a small fold of leather, sweat-stained and worn, and threw it down in the middle of the table.

            It was Webb's wallet. Galindez recognized it even before Rabb picked it up to examine it. He should know it, he'd put it together himself when setting Webb's cover for the op. Rabb opened it up. There was no money, of course, but a few small cards and slips of paper were still tucked inside. One by one, Rabb pulled them out and laid them on the table: the Dutch driver's license for Anders Vandergraaf with Webb's picture on it, an insurance card, a few business cards, a press pass, and something that looked like a membership card to some organization or another. Victor really couldn't remember, he'd spent more time making sure that the driver's license and insurance card were registered and would leave the proper paper trail in case anyone checked. Reaching into a hidden fold of the wallet, Rabb's fingers encountered a bit of plastic, and he extracted something stiff and laminated. He laid it down on the table, and Victor frowned. He didn't remember putting that in. He looked closer. It was a photograph, wallet sized and laminated in hard plastic to protect it. The faces of Sarah and Penny and Clay smiled up at him through their plastic casing.

            He and Rabb exchanged another long glance. Rabb turned his attention back to the smuggler.

            "What is it exactly that your contact wants?"

            The boy relayed the message, listened and turned back to Rabb. "He say Dragon's contact is in a delicate position. The package you want is very valuable. You are not only one who want it. He say Chinese want it, too."

            "I'll bet," Rabb murmured, feeling the food he had just eaten sink to the bottom of his stomach like a stone.

            The boy listened some more, and then continued. "He say Dragon's contact must deal with Chinese. If he does not have this package, he must give them something of equal value."

            "Like what?" Galindez said warily, feeling that the bomb was finally about to drop.

            "Information." The boy said.

            "No way!" Galindez snapped. He looked to Rabb. The Navy officer was strangely silent as he stared unblinking into the smuggler's eyes.

            "Tell him," he said quietly, "That we have a deal."

             "Are you nuts?!" Victor hissed as he yanked the door of the cab closed behind them. "We're already operating way outside of the lines on this one. We can't trade intelligence to the North Koreans! Not even for Webb!"

            "Relax, Victor." Rabb said, shooting a look back over his shoulder as Kim gave directions to the driver and they pulled away from the restaurant. "We're spooks, remember? We feed people information all the time. –It's not our problem if it's not always accurate."

            Galindez glared at him. "Would you mind telling me just what it is you've got up your sleeve?"

            Rabb shrugged. "Let me talk with our people at Naval Intelligence and toss it around. We usually have a couple of files of misinformation lying around that we can leak in case something gets dicey."

            "You sure about this?" Galindez asked, knowing full well that Rabb was going out on a limb on this one.

            Rabb grinned at him. "Would you rather ask your boss?"

            Galindez sighed. "Good luck."  
            Rabb clapped him lightly on the shoulder. "Relax, Gunny. I've got it covered."

            Galindez nodded his acceptance and Rabb turned to stare out the window at the bright and bustling streets of Seoul, wishing he was as certain as he'd managed to sound.

03:14 ZULU

27 MAY, 2011

WEBB RESIDENCE

ALEXANDRIA, VA

_            'I'm sorry, Sarah…'_

            The words were little more than a soft whisper at the back of her mind, but her eyes flew open the instant they registered. She sat up quickly. She hadn't been asleep. --Far from it, in fact. She'd been too busy trying to ignore the growing sense of anxiety that had gripped her these past few days. She reached out and touched the pillow beside her. It was empty, as it had been for most of the last four months, but this time she felt something terrifying and urgent in that vacancy.

            _'Clay,' she thought desperately, __'Where are you?'_

            Pulling the pillow tightly to her chest, she closed her eyes and tried to get a better understanding of the fearful intuition that gripped her. She sensed his presence strongly tonight, as if he were standing here beside her rather than in the middle of some god-forsaken country half a world away. She tried to get a fix upon him, a sense of where he was, but the waves of intense emotion that rolled over her seemed to obscure him from her view.

            Burying her face into his pillow, she inhaled deeply and caught the faintest hint of his scent, still present after all his months away. She gave herself over to the feelings, trying to understand and analyze each one. He was hurt. He was alone. He was afraid.

            And she couldn't do a damned thing to help him. 

            She had even swallowed her pride and picked up the phone yesterday to invite Catherine Gale to lunch. She hadn't expected much, she knew Catherine really couldn't tell her anything, even on the remote chance that she did know where he was, but still, she'd hoped to glean at least the faintest indication that he was all right. His last email had been days ago, and he had told her that he would be out of touch for a while, but still…she couldn't shake the feeling that something was horribly wrong.

            Of course, wherever he was, Gunny was with him. She knew perfectly well that whatever happened, Victor would do everything in his power to bring him back in one piece. It wouldn't be the first time he'd had to ride to Clay's rescue…

            Oddly enough, that had made her think of Harm. She wondered where he was and what he was doing. He'd been transferred to Naval Intelligence last she'd heard. She wondered if he and Clay ever ran into each other…

            _'I love you…' The thought drifted softly through her mind and she hugged the pillow tighter. There was something desperate in the words._

            _'I love you too,' she thought fiercely, __'and I need you.' She choked back a sob. "Hold on, Clay" she whispered. "Come home to us. Please come home."_


	15. Chapter 15

**Chapter 15**

31 MAY, 2021

08:15 ZULU

WEBB RESIDENCE, ALEXANDRIA, VA

MEMORIAL DAY

            The glitter of gold caught his eye as he stepped from the bathroom and headed for the closet in search of something to wear. Preferably, he thought wryly, something that didn't require a tie. He paused in front of the bureau to stare at the two heavy gold rings that gleamed in the faint rays of the morning sun. He had wondered what she had done with them.

            Slowly, he reached out and laid his palm over the rings, drawing them across the polished cherry surface and into his hand. He clenched them tightly in his fist, feeling the familiar warmth of the heavy gold against his skin.

            He had missed them. She hadn't given them back to him when they'd come for him at the hospital and given the mood she'd been in yesterday, he hadn't quite had the nerve to ask her for them.

            He opened his palm and considered the rings for a moment. They posed a strange dichotomy. The ornately carved signet ring and the plain gold band were as different as night and day, yet each was a vital representation of his true self.

            He rolled the Harvard class ring between his fingers and then slipped it onto his right hand. He rarely wore it in the field, but in DC it was as much a part of his image as the three-piece suits that filled his half of the closet. The Harvard ring was his pass key into the inner circles of the Washington elite. It was the unspoken credentials of his wealth, power and intellect, subtly displayed upon his finger. Essentially, it served as a notice to the world that he was not just another asshole in a suit.

            If the Harvard ring was his professional identity, the wedding band was his personal one. It marked him as a husband and a father, as a man who loved and was loved in turn. It might not always be effective in deterring the advances of the vacant blondes and bored socialites he encountered at the obligatory rounds of Washington cocktail parties, but what the ring didn't fend off, Sarah did. However, he valued the simple band not for what it indicated to others, but for what it signified to himself. Of the two, it was always the wedding band that he missed the most. On the days when he had to play the game and make the tough calls –the ones that pricked what was left of his moral sensibilities—the ring served to ground him. It reminded him that what he did was not necessarily who he was. It helped him to remember that he was Penny's father and Sarah's husband. In other words, it served to remind _him_ that he was not just another asshole in a suit, either.

            He slid the band back onto his left hand, aware that there was something in the act that felt…unbalanced. He knew what it was. The rings were a promise, and wherever they were, she always gave them back to him with a kiss that was a promise of something more. She'd never just slipped into the room and left them for him to find. They'd broken with tradition. He stared grimly at his reflection, worn and haggard in the bureau mirror, and wondered what other traditions they'd break before this week was through.

***

            "What is this?" Clay stared down at his breakfast in dismay. Beside him, Tigger paused in the act of washing his face to sniff delicately at the plate. The cat shot Clay a disgusted look, stalked across the counter and jumped to the floor. He was clearly unimpressed.

            "Grape fruit, Daddy," Penny said, adding a saucer with two slices of whole wheat toast, unbuttered. She placed two glasses, one of orange juice and another of skim milk beside the plates.

            "Where's the coffee?"

            "No coffee," Penny chirped, turning back to the refrigerator to pull out what appeared to be yet another disgustingly healthy dish. "You're not supposed to have caffeine."

            "That doctor can go take a short walk off a tall building," Clay groused, picking at the chunks of grapefruit. He shot a pleading glance across the kitchen. "Help me out here, Rosa."

            The housekeeper paused to shake her finger at him as she loaded the last of the dishes into the dishwasher. "Now Mister Webb, don't you try to play me," she said sternly. "Miss Penny is right. You have got to listen to the doctor and eat good food. We want to keep you around for a long, long time."

            "Yeah, and torture me," he muttered, breaking off a piece of the dry toast and chewing it. He'd actually kill for some butter.

            At the other end of the kitchen, Rosa started the dishwasher and turned to pick her purse up off the counter. She reached out to drop a quick kiss on Penny's cheek. "Ok, chica, I have to go now. You tell your mamma I put the tortillas for the party in the glass dish in the refrigerator. –And don't forget, Jorge is coming tomorrow to prune the bushes."

            Penny returned the housekeeper's brisk hug. "Bye Rosa, see you tomorrow."

            "Bye, Rosa," Clay added, his voice not quite so enthusiastic.

            She frowned at him, and then crossed the kitchen to hug him as well. He stiffened, slightly, surprised by the gesture and felt Rosa's chubby cheek press tightly to his. "Oh, don't be such a sourpuss, Senor Clay. God has given you a gift, a second chance." She squeezed him again and stepped back, a knowing smile crossing her features. "And I for one am glad you are still with us."

            He stared at her for a moment, his hazel eyes unreadable. "If you really loved me, you'd make me coffee," he deadpanned.

            "Oh, you!" she waved him off with a disgusted gesture, and exited the kitchen, shooing Jack and Tigger out the door ahead of her.

            The noisy exodus made the house too silent all of a sudden and he looked at Penny, who had taken a seat across from him. "Where's your mother at?"  
            Penny shrugged. "She left a little while ago. She went to go get Meredith."

            "She took my car?"

            "Did you see another one around here?" Penny said dryly, "The truck is still out at the farm, --remember?"

            The "truck" was actually a four door Lexus SUV that they used in the summer months for taking horses to shows and in the winter when the roads became a bit too treacherous for Sarah's Corvette. They'd left it out at the farm after a show last weekend, but he couldn't help thinking that it would have been handy to have it home. It was roomier and it would have made for a more comfortable ride to drive them all to the Turners.

            "Just as long as she doesn't crack it up," he grumbled, stabbing at another slice of grapefruit. He really hated grapefruit, but he managed to keep from grimacing as he chewed. Penny seemed so proud of her effort.

            Penny sighed. "It was an accident, Daddy. It really wasn't our fault. Some idiot backed into us!" She looked at him worriedly. "You really aren't going to stay mad at Mom about that, are you?"

            He sighed and pushed the plate aside. "No," he said at last. "I don't blame your mother for that. It was just bad timing."

            Penny continued to dissect him with that sharp green-gold gaze. 

            "What?" he said at last, no longer able to stand it. Damn, she apparently had inherited her interrogation skills along with her eye color.

            "Are you and Mom fighting?" she asked.

            He scrubbed a hand across his face, wishing again for coffee. "Maybe," he admitted.

            "About what?" Penny pressed.

            He dropped his hand and his eyes, gray and green, narrowed upon his daughter's. "Classified," he said tersely.

            Penny made a face, clearly acknowledging the cop-out. "Are you mad at Mom?" she asked.

            God, she just didn't give up.

            "No," he replied. His answer was firm and direct.

            Penny reached over and snagged a section of his grapefruit. "Mom's mad at you."

            He scowled at her. "How do you know?"

            "She told me."

            Years of practice kept his expression perfectly blank, but inside, he was cringing. She'd actually told Penny? It was worse than he thought.

            "Did she say why?" he asked carefully.

            "Do you know why?" Penny returned, tempting him to reach out across the table and throttle her.

            "Answer the question," he snapped.

            He saw the challenge rising in her eyes, and knew exactly what she was thinking. _'You first,' but she wisely conceded the point._

            "She said it was need-to-know."

            "She's right," he said, and picked up his toast, biting into it with savage vigor.

            "Maybe…" Penny hesitated at his irritated glance.

            "Maybe what?"

            She drew a deep breath and plunged on. "Maybe if you just say that you were wrong and tell her that you're sorry, she'll forgive you."

            He sighed. "It's not quite that simple, Pen."

            "Why not?" Penny said slyly, "That's what you're always telling me to do when I screw up. –Now are you saying it doesn't work?"

            He shot her a reproving look. "It's not about whether or not it works, sweetheart. It's just the right thing to do."

            "And telling her you're sorry isn't the right thing to do?"

            Damn. She was good. He should have sent her to Israel with Galindez. She'd have had the Israelis and the Palestinians signing peace treaties until their pens ran dry.

            "No," he said patiently. "It's still the right thing to do."

            "Then tell her," Penny said.

            First Galindez, then Sarah, now Penny …he was sensing a recurring theme here.

            "I did tell her," he grumbled, thinking back to his argument with Sarah last night.

            "Did you mean it?" Penny pressed.

            Well, yes …and no. Perhaps he had still been smarting a little from her words. Penny read the truth in his body language.

            "Tell her again," she said firmly. "And mean it this time."

            He snorted. "I doubt it will help."

            Penny shrugged. "Maybe she's just not done being mad at you yet. –Tell her, Dad. She'll forgive you."

            If only it really were that easy, he thought. The trouble was, Sarah was pressing him for the truth and truth and what she wanted to hear were going to be very different things. Picking up his empty dishes, he carried them to the sink and rinsed them off.

            "I wouldn't count on it," he said.

***

            "Oh what a lovely house," Meredith murmured as Sarah eased the convertible to a stop beneath the cantilevered car park that extended out over the front entrance. Meredith sat for a moment, taking in the multi-colored masonry, the neatly sculptured shrubs and bushes before finally fixing upon the massive, copper clad front door that time had faded to a soft patina of pale green.

            "Is it yours?"

            Mac smiled wryly. It was the same question Meredith always asked, and the genuine pleasure and wonderment in her voice was one of the reasons she continued to bring her old friend back here on her increasingly rare "good" days. Meredith might not be able to remember where she'd been, but she still knew what she liked and she'd always liked this house. Some of the best times she and Meredith had spent together had been right here, debating rugs and draperies and tile for the bathroom while she oversaw the hellish remodel in Clay's long and frequent absences.

            "Yes," she said, and stepped out of the car. "But I like to think of it as partly yours too. You did help me decorate it."

            "I did?" Meredith's look of wonderment grew.

            Mac nodded. "Want to come in and see?"

            Meredith hesitated, as if consulting that silent unknown voice that only she could hear.

            "Yes," she said at last. "I think…I think I'd like that."

            Moving around to the other side of the car, Mac opened the door and took her by the arm. Leading her up the steps to the front door she paused as she caught the odd expression on Meredith's face.

            "Are you all right?"

            "Yes…. I—" Meredith smiled weakly and squeezed Sarah's arm. "Yes," she said again, her voice more firm.

            Reassured, Mac led her inside and seated her in a leather chair. "Sit right here," she said gently. "I have to go see if Clay and Penny are ready and get the food. I'll just be a minute."

            Turning down the hallway, she called out in a slightly louder voice, "Penny! Would you come into the living room and sit with your Aunt Meredith?"

            Meredith sat for a moment, absorbing the comforting silence of the room. She liked this room, she thought vaguely. There was something warm and familiar about it, almost as if she'd been here before.

            She frowned as she considered it. The rugs, the furnishings, that strange copper front door…

            _'Somethin' wrong darlin'?'___

She smiled faintly at the voice but did not answer. It seemed to bother people when she talked to him, and she'd fallen into the habit of thinking back at him. Perhaps it was a bad habit, because now that it was becoming such a chore to speak, she found herself trying to answer everyone the way she answered him: in her head.

            She turned to the window and for a moment, she could almost envision him standing there, but his features seemed faded and indistinct. It was so hard to remember what he looked like when she didn't have the pictures. Odd, she thought, that she could still remember the exact tone and the warmth of his voice. There were some days when she could not even recall exactly who he was, but she always could remember that voice.

            She found her eyes drawn back to the entryway. There was something about that door…

            Hesitantly, she rose from the chair and walked to the massive door, staring at it intently.

            _'What is it?' the voice prodded._

            "I remember," she whispered.

            _'Remember what?'_

            In her mind, the door opened, and a woman stood before her. She had been small and dark, a foreigner, with just the faintest trace of an accent.

            _'Oh, Senora!__ I am so glad to see you! She was in bed when I found her. She's still there…'_

            She turned away from the door and stared across the open foyer to the hallway. The memories struck her at the oddest times, but when they came it was with a crystal clarity that the present no longer seemed to possess. In the memories, it all came back: her identity, her awareness, her feelings, all of it. For one brief moment, she wasn't lost anymore.

            Slowly, but decisively, she crossed the room to the hallway as she followed the memory of the woman in her mind.

            _'I don't know what to do, Senora. She says she's not sick, but she won't stop crying. I don't want to leave her, but I have to go soon…and someone must look after the child.'_

            "It's all right, Rosa." Meredith whispered the words under her breath. "I'll take care of it."

            She glanced at the door way to her right and recalled a child standing there, a small girl with wavy dark hair that clutched a tiny squirming puppy tightly to her chest. Penny, she thought triumphantly as the name fell into place. This was Penny.

            "Hello, sweetheart," she murmured. The child in her memory continued to stare at her with wide, uncertain eyes.

            She turned to the door at her left and stared it for a long time. Her hand itched to grab the handle and throw it open to reveal the next tantalizing clue to this past she had glimpsed. Again she heard the voice, warm and softly teasing at the back of her mind.

            _'Oh, for cryin' out loud!__ Go on. --You know you'll do it anyway.'_

            She put her hand on the knob and slowly turned it. It was a bedroom, tastefully furnished with everything in its place. She looked to the bed. It was empty of course, and neatly made, but in her mind's eye she could still see the rumpled covers and the slim, shaking figure that huddled there.

_            She had crossed the room in three strides, taking a seat on the edge of the mattress and stroking a wayward lock of mussed dark hair away from the flushed damp face. The brown eyes that met hers were read and swollen with tears._

_            'Oh, Sarah –honey, what is it? What's wrong?'_

_            A heavy sob shook the woman in the bed, and she rolled to her side, exhausted and listless.  'Something's happened,' the voice that answered her was barely recognizable, '--something terrible.'_

_            'What?' Meredith demanded, her heart clutching in her chest._

_            Sarah merely shook her head and buried her face deeper into the pillow._

_            'I don't know,' she whispered._

            "Meredith?" She started slightly at the new voice, and felt the memory slide from her tenuous grasp to be replaced once again by the empty bedroom. Half turning, she studied the man who stood behind her with a puzzled expression on his face. Like the house, he seemed somewhat familiar and she knew instinctively that she liked him. She just couldn't remember why.

            She offered him an apologetic smile, intensely embarrassed to find herself standing here in his house with no idea of who he was. "I… I was looking for…Sarah," she said, latching on to the name from her memory.

            He smiled at her gently. It was nice smile, she thought. Maybe that was why she liked him.

            "She's looking for you, too," he said, and offered her his arm.

            She took his arm and walked slowly with him down the hallway, surreptitiously studying him out of the corner of her eye. For some reason, she pictured a younger man, without the silver in his hair or the creases so deep in his face. Tense and driven, she thought, and always wearing dark and immaculate three piece suits. But the eyes were the same, dark and murky and transforming from green-gray to brown and back again with each shift of his emotions. They were always brown when he fought with A.J. but green when he looked at Sarah. Yes, she decided, it was the same man.

            He hesitated just on the threshold of the kitchen and she looked from him to the woman who stood at the counter, packing a picnic basket. –The woman who had brought her here. It was the same woman from her memory, the one who had been crying. She glanced back at him. Was that uncertainty in his eyes?

            "She loves you, you know."

            Something faltered in his expression, but it was quickly replaced by a small smile that quirked at the corner of his mouth. She decided it was not as nice as the one he'd given her before. There was something less than genuine in it.

            "Are you sure about that?" He asked, half under his breath.

            Frankly, she wasn't sure of anything these days, but she still couldn't shake that image from her memory, the image of the woman sobbing uncontrollably into a pillow –his pillow.

            _'Oh yeah, she loves him,' the voice at the back of her mind pronounced in tone that was slightly disgusted and not a little bored. It caused her to smile._

            _'You never did have much patience with relationships,' she thought back, and squeezed the arm of the man beside her._

            "I'm positive," she said.

            "Here she is," Clay announced, leading Meredith into the kitchen. "Are you two ready?"

            "Almost," Mac replied, as she dropped the last few items into the picnic basket and handed it to Penny. "Why don't you take Meredith on out to the car and get her settled in? Penny and I will be out in a minute."

            He didn't miss the slight stiffening of her shoulders, or the fact that she was careful not to look directly at him as she spoke. Penny didn't miss it either. Her worried eyes traveled from him to Sarah and back again and she cocked one brow in a meaningful gesture. His mouth thinned and he shook his head slightly. Now was not the time.

            He glanced at Meredith and somehow managed to paste a teasing grin across his face. "So tell me pretty lady, when was the last time you got to sit in the back seat of a convertible?"

            To his surprise, the smile she flashed him was brilliant and filled with a spark of her old mischief. "Honestly? I have no idea…"

Thank God for the convertible. Clay slowed the car as he approached the turn to the Turner's long paved driveway and snuck a glance from the corner of his eye at the rigid figure in the seat beside him. It was warm for May, and he'd been able to put the top down. It had been a strategic decision that had had little to do with the beauty of the day. The rushing wind had served to make conversation unnecessary –if not impossible—and it had produced the illusion of blowing away the air of tension that had settled between him and Sarah. But as they slowly approached the neat brick house with the row of cars parked in front of it, he felt the silence rise again. He pulled up behind Tiner's Escalade and switched off the engine. There was no way in hell they were going to pull this off.

            He reached for his door handle, and saw that Sarah was already out of the car and leaning down to help Meredith out of the back. No doubt she was planning on making her escape from him with all due haste. She hadn't spoken to him once during the entire thirty minute drive. He cast a speculative gaze over the vehicles that were already there. Bud and Harriet's mini-van, Tiner's SUV, Victor's Altima –it looked like they were the last ones here. Tiner could be fairly oblivious, but Bud and Harriet weren't and what's worse, they were nosy to boot, albeit in a well-intentioned sort of way. Still, he had no doubt that they'd only have to take one look at the thundercloud that was Sarah's face and he'd she'd be whisked off to the kitchen and he to Sturgis's game room for separate interrogations. Quite frankly, he just wasn't up to that.

            Stepping out of the car, he flipped his seat forward for Penny to exit and depressed the button on his remote to release the trunk.

            "Honey, why don't you help Meredith inside?" he suggested as Penny headed towards the trunk. "Your mother and I will get the rest of this."

            Penny hesitated only briefly, her sharp hazel eyes catching the unspoken order in his and for once, she gave him no argument.

            "Sure," she said quickly, and rounded the car to take Meredith by the arm. "Come on, Aunt Mere. Have you been to Sturgis and Bobbie's before? –It's really cool!"

            Sarah said nothing, but he saw the brief flicker of annoyance cross her face as Penny swept Meredith away and they were suddenly left alone. She folded her arms across her chest and glared at him. He held the gaze as he closed the car door –perhaps with a little more force than was necessary—and circled slowly to the rear of the car. She met him there, her arms still crossed tightly and her eyes still burning with anger.

            "So," she said coolly, "Now you want to talk."

            He raised the trunk lid, obscuring them from the view of the bay window above and slowly put his keys into his pocket in an effort to control his temper. She was still pissed about last night, and apparently the time she'd had to sleep and think had only made her angrier. He couldn't allow himself to rise to the bait.

            He reached for the picnic basket and hefted it from the trunk. "Not particularly," he admitted, "but if you don't want to spend the rest of the afternoon playing twenty questions with Bud and Harriet, you might want to put on a better game face. Everything your thinking right now shows in your expression."

            "And just what is my expression saying?" She snapped, reaching for the potato salad.

            His eyes swept over her stiff features. There was something flat and unreadable in his gaze. "That you can't stand the sight of me."

            "Well," she said, balancing the bowl on her hip and snapping the trunk closed, "at least it's an accurate account." She shook her head. "I'm so mad at you right now Clay that I can't stand you. Every time I look at you, I keep wondering which one of my strings you're going to jerk on next. If I try to help you, you push me away. And whenever I get too close, you know just what to say and how to play me to get me all wound up and distract me from what's really going on with us."

            He looked down at the basket in his hands, feeling as if the ground were shifting suddenly beneath his feet. One minute she was loving and concerned and the next she was cold and angry. Every time he expected the one, he got the other instead. He didn't know where he stood with her anymore, and he didn't know how to get them back to where they were before.

"What is going on with us?" he asked quietly. This wasn't one of their ordinary disagreements. They both knew it.  
            She looked at him steadily. "You tell me," she said and then shook her head. "Oh, wait. I forgot. That's need to know, isn't it? –And you made it pretty clear last night that I don't need to know."

            She advanced upon him, her brown eyes blazing and in spite of himself, he took a step back. "I know that look in your eye, Clayton Webb. It's guilt. You've done something you blame yourself for. Something you're afraid of and you're afraid to tell me about it. Do you know how crazy that makes me?"

            "Sarah," he began, but she shook her head and plunged on. 

            "Do you know how many nights I lay awake and ask myself what it is you could have done that is so terrible you can't tell me about it? I know about your job, Clay. I know the awful things you have to do, --I've seen them." She shook her head. "Last night, when I couldn't sleep, I kept thinking about what you said. All I could think of is what could you have possibly done that is worse than the things I already know you're capable of?"

Her brown eyes bored into his, begging him for the truth. "What are you so afraid of, Clay?" she whispered.

            His hand clenched tight around the handle of the basket. 

            "Losing you," he said simply. He inhaled sharply and then added, "—losing us."

            She was silent for a moment. "I'm afraid of that, too."

            She circled around him and walked along the car and then stopped. "Is there somebody else?" Her voice was so quiet that he wasn't sure he'd heard her correctly.

            "What?"

            She hugged the glass bowl tighter to herself. "It was the worst thing that I could think of." 

            He circled to the passenger side of the car and stared at her in disbelief. "You actually think I'm seeing another woman?"

            "Are you?"

            He held her eyes for a long moment. There was something like disappointment in his gaze. "You know me better than that."

            "Do I, Clay? –Do I really?" She shook her head. "I'm starting to think that I don't know you at all."

            He scowled at her. "I haven't changed, Sarah."

            "No," she agreed slowly, "I don't think you have. I think maybe I just never saw you for who you really were."

            "And just who do you think I am?" he demanded.

            "I don't know," she admitted, "but you certainly aren't the person I thought you were."

            "Just what in the hell is that supposed to mean?" he snapped.

            She rounded on him again as her anger rekindled and burned anew. "The man I married swore that he would never lie to me. He trusted me …and I trusted him. –Obviously I've made a mistake."

            He said nothing, and she advanced upon him, her eyes burning with the force of her rage. "If you were that man, you would have at least been honest with me. –Rather than leaving behind all these scattered little scraps of dirty secrets for me to find out from strangers!"

            She felt the tears streaking down her cheeks like molten fire, and she dashed them away with the back of her hand. "The man I thought I married wouldn't keep bringing flowers to a woman who's been dead for eighteen years and never tell me about it," she ground the words out harshly. "He wouldn't stonewall a case I've been working on for months and act as if he knew nothing about it! God, he would never allow a stranger to be buried in Harm's grave and let me think…"

            She trailed off as she noted the pasty pallor of his complexion, and realized that in her ranting she must have struck a devastating truth.

            "Oh…God!" the words came out in a soft hiss as her brows drew together in horror. "You did, didn't you? –Bud was right… it wasn't Harm. It was all a cover up…" she shook her head in disbelief as the pieces finally clicked into place: Clay …Harm …Victor …Kershaw …Korea. All the pieces had been there, she had just never allowed herself to see it. At the time, she'd been too worried about Clay –and too shocked at the news of Harm's death to think much of it. And later …she just had not wanted to see the facts that had been staring her in the face all these years.

            "You were there," she whispered, reading the truth in his stricken expression. "You were there when it happened, weren't you?"

            He said nothing, but the color of his eyes shifted ever so slightly and she knew that she was right. "You and Victor were sent to Asia the same time Harm was in Korea. You were working for Kershaw. –Harm had worked for Kershaw. What happened? Did you ask him to do the CIA one more favor for old times sake?"

            Her mind began to race as more long forgotten details floated to the surface of her memory. "God! The civilian on the C-130 that accompanied the casket back to the States, was that you?"

            "No," he said hoarsely, and she sensed that this much at least was true.

            "It was Victor," she guessed. His silence seemed to confirm it, and she felt the growing horror as she began to realize the full extent of the deception he –no, they-- had played upon her. Her hands were shaking as the memories washed over her. 

"It was Victor who came to JAG that day and told us," she whispered, her eyes brimming now with tears. "He said he'd heard it at Pearl…"

            She rubbed hard at her cheek with the back of her hand, her pain boiling over into rage. "And when I met your flight at Reagan the next day…" she hissed, "you knew it, too." Her eyes hardened accusingly. "Of course you knew! You were behind it!"

            He took a step toward her. "Sarah—"

            "No!" She spat, and hurled the heavy glass bowl in his direction. In spite of her anger and the force she put into it, the weight wasn't quite enough to carry it all the way across the open car. It struck the inside of the passenger door and cracked, spilling the creamy, oily mass onto the fine leather seats. 

            The shocked look that crossed his face was almost comical, but he wasted no time in lamenting over the damage. Instead, he stalked around the front of the car, advancing upon her with grim determination. He had to make her listen. He had to tell her how it really had been. 

Unfortunately, she was in no mood to listen. Her only thought was to get away, and she lunged backwards, out of his grasp. The stone ledge came up suddenly behind her thighs and she put her hand out, searching for something –anything—to drive him back.

            "Sarah, I can expl—

            Her hand encountered the heavy terra-cotta rim of one of the potted geraniums and she hefted the pot, flinging it at his head with deadly accuracy.

            "Bastard!" she shrieked, "Get away from me!"

            Only his quick instincts saved him, and he managed to duck in time. He felt the whoosh of air as the pot sailed past his head. It clipped the corner of the windshield and shattered, raining potting soil and broken bits of potsherds down upon the dash and deep pile carpeting.

            The sudden burst of adrenaline unleashed his own temper and he advanced upon her, grabbing her by the wrist as she whirled to snatch up another pot. She was cursing at him now, spitting a stream of foul language that was more appropriate to Marine barracks than a D.C. garden party. She tried to jab him with an elbow, but he blocked the move. She whirled and tried to swing at him with her free hand, but he dodged the blow and deftly snagged her other wrist. She struggled in his grasp, kicking and swearing, and he shook her in a grim effort to bring her to reason.

"Sarah!"

"Let go of me you son of a bitch!"

"Damn it, Sarah! Will you just—"

"Stop! Stop it!" Penny's voice, high pitched with hysteria washed over them like a wave of cold water, freezing them in place. 

"Both of you stop!" Penny sobbed, and flung herself down the stairs from the upper balcony to where they stood.

Suddenly aware of just how tightly he was clenching Sarah's wrists and what it must look like, he slowly released her and took a step back. He was shocked at the tell-tale red strips that instantly appeared where his fingers had been. He knew from experience that it would likely bruise.

He forced himself to meet her eyes. She returned his gaze with a stony look and rubbed at her reddening wrist. He took another step back, feeling the bile rise in his throat. God, what had he done?

--She was right, he realized. He wasn't who she thought he was. Hell, he wasn't who _he thought he was. Granted, it wasn't the first time she'd taken a swing at him over the years, but even in their most bitter arguments, he'd never laid a hand upon her. He'd never thought himself the kind of man who would resort to such a thing._

Apparently, he'd been wrong.

Sobbing and hysterical, Penny flung herself between the two of them. Clay stepped back even further, feeling like a heel. To his surprise, however, it was not him that she turned upon, but Sarah.

"Leave him alone!" Penny spat, balling her hands into fists as she glared at her mother.

"Excuse me?" Sarah said, her voice still angry and clearly bewildered as she stared at her daughter in disbelief.

Penny shook her head, her eyes glinting green with fury.  "How could you? –You know he's not supposed to get upset! What are you trying to do? Give him another heart attack?"

Penny shoved angrily at her mother, forcing Sarah to take a step back. "It's probably your fault he ended up in the hospital anyway!"

"What?!" Sarah exclaimed, clearly outraged. She fixed her daughter with a menacing glare. "Now you just wait a minute, young lady!"

But Penny was not to be dissuaded. 

"You want him to die!" She accused between ragged breaths. "You're mad at him. –You said so. You probably wish he was dead instead of that stupid Captain Rabb you're always moping over!"

The words, so carelessly considered and angrily spoken, caught both Clay and Sarah hard in the pits of their stomachs.

"What?" Mac whispered again, her face going ashen.

Penny wiped the tears from her cheeks as she glared from one parent to another. "I'm not stupid," she said disdainfully. "You always put the flowers on his grave by yourself and you spend lots of time there. –And you hate it when Dad and I go with you, too."

Sarah caught the small flicker of reaction that traveled across Clay's face, and realized that Penny was not alone in this conclusion.

"I heard Bobbie talking to Bud on the phone the other night about the Rabb case, and how you didn't want Dad to know that you took it. –I can see why. Chloe told me all about Captain Rabb and how you were always mooning over him back before you married Dad."

In that instant, Mac could have gladly turned Chloe over her knee and smacked her. –Regardless of the fact that she was now 35 years old and living three states away with her husband and two children. What on earth had she been thinking, telling Penny things like that?

Penny paused for breath, and her eyes hardened, taking on a cynical glint that was all too reminiscent of her father.

"You know, Mom. It's really pathetic when you're so hard up you've got to cheat on Daddy with a dead guy."

Her hand flew of its own accord, landing on Penny's cheek with a stinging report. Penny reeled from the blow, more in surprise than pain. Sarah gasped, her hands flying to her mouth in horror at what she had done.

This time, it was Clay who intervened.

"Enough," he said sharply, stepping between them and pulling Penny away. He wanted to tell her to apologize to her mother, but so many things had been said –and done—that he wasn't exactly sure who should be apologizing to whom. It had all gone too far for simple apologies, he realized. The situation had spun so wildly out of control that he had no idea how to get it back in hand.

He shot a helpless glance to his wife. She was trembling now, her lips bloodless and her face chalky-white. She looked desperately from him to Penny, and began backing slowly away.

"Sarah—"

She said nothing, but shook her head, putting up her hands in a defensive gesture. Then she turned and walked away from them, her steps picking up speed as she went. By the time she reached the end of the driveway, she was running.

Penny was shaking now. He could feel the fine tremors that racked the slim shoulder still resting beneath his hand. He allowed his fingers to squeeze firmly --but not too hard as he remembered the red streaks on Sarah's wrists. He'd already left more marks than he cared to this day.

"You shouldn't have spoken to your mother like that." It was the only thing he could think to say, and he noticed that his voice sounded dull even to his own ears.

"I don't care," Penny sniffed. There was an odd note to her voice. It sounded angry and hurt and desolate all at the same time. "It's all her fault," she said again.

"No," Clay said tiredly. His gaze traveled down the street in the direction his wife had fled. "It's mine."

***


	16. Chapter 16

**Chapter Sixteen**

Galindez was the first one to arrive on the scene.

            "Clay? What's going on? Penny just came running upstairs crying and…" he trailed off as he spotted the ruin of the Mercedes. "Holy shit! What happened to your car?" 

            "Sarah happened," Clay muttered. He slowly rose to his feet and stared down the driveway in the direction Sarah had gone. She didn't even have her purse. She couldn't get far.

He raked a hand through his hair and looked to where the black Altima was parked. "Give me your keys."

Galindez stared at him incredulously. "Are you nuts?" His gaze flashed back to the convertible, with its gleaming red hood dusted with potting soil and shards of broken terra cotta. "If that's the way you treat your wheels, no way am I letting you near mine."

"Damn it, Vic! I don't have time for this! I've got to go after her!"

Victor's eyes narrowed. "Go after her?" He quickly scanned the scene of the disaster, noting the dented bumper, the broken tail light and the mixture of potato salad, potting soil and mangled geranium that had smashed against the doors and liberally spilled across the leather seats into the plush carpet of the interior.

"What happened?" he asked softly.

Webb's laugh, harsh and hollow, bit through the distance between them. "You were right," he said simply. "I should have told her. –Now give me your goddamned keys!"

Wordlessly, Victor handed over the ring. He watched as Clay stalked to the car. The Nissan started with an impatient roar and peeled out of the driveway. He stood there, alone in the driveway, and watched the Altima's brake lights as they flashed brightly before disappearing around the corner.

The muffled trill of his cell phone caught his attention. He pulled it from his jacket pocket and flipped it open.

"Galindez," he said abruptly, glaring down into the phone. The bewildered face of Mike Davis, one of Webb's three Special Protection Officer's, stared back at him.

"Yo, Vic," Davis's thick Bronx accent rang clearly from the phone. "We just saw the boss peeling out of here in your car, after a woman on foot who looked a hell of a lot like the missus. –What gives?"

Christ, was nothing sacred anymore? Galindez sighed. "Nothing, Mike. It's just a little domestic dust-up." He raised an eyebrow. "What are you doing out here anyway? –I thought the boss gave you the day off."

"The boss may have, but Kennedy didn't," the SPO groused. "He told us to keep an eye on the old man just the same. I think the whole heart attack thing freaked everybody out."

_No kidding, _Victor thought grimly. "You got somebody on him?"

"Yeah, Cordova."

"And her?"

"Wakefield," Davis replied.

"Tell Cordova to break it off."

"But Kennedy said--  
            "I don't give a damn what Kennedy said!" Galindez snapped. "If the boss spots you on his six, Kennedy will be joining the three of you in the unemployment line. Have Valerie stick with her until the boss catches up then break it off. –I mean it!"

Davis hesitated. "You sure about this, Galindez?"

Victor ground his teeth. God, he missed the days when nobody gave a damn who they were. –Back when they could almost be two regular guys. He stared hard into the phone.

"They need the alone time, Mike. Trust me on this one."

Davis shrugged. "Ok," he said finally, "But he gets carjacked, it's your ass."

"It's my ass anyway," Galindez growled, "Paulina and I are three payments away from owning that car. It comes back with so much as a paint chip and I'll never hear the end of it."

Davis snorted. "Better you than me." The screen went black, and Galindez flipped the phone shut, returning it to his pocket.

"You know, Webb warned me about Tiner's kids, but I thought he was joking."

Victor turned to see Sturgis, standing at the end of the brick walkway, staring at the convertible in amazement.

"Yeah, well, they might actually have an alibi for this one."

Turner bent down and picked up the plastic lid to the bowl that had held the potato salad, then slowly rose and took in the damage. "I guess the cat is finally out of the bag," he mused.

Galindez flashed Turner a look of surprise. "You knew?"

Sturgis nodded. "Bobbie mentioned a couple of things. The rest wasn't too hard to put together."

"I see," Victor said, feeling a bit uncomfortable. He hadn't really had the chance to know Sturgis Turner outside of the occasional parties and social engagements hosted by Clay and Sarah or Bud and Harriet that they all participated in. He had already left JAG by the time Turner came on board, and he'd never really had a chance to work with him. He did know, however, that Turner and Rabb had been close friends. He could sense the unspoken question in the other man, but he waited for it to be asked, just the same.

Turner gave him a searching look. Some of what he was feeling must have been written on his face, for although there was no accusation in them; Turner's words caught him squarely in the gut.

"You know what really happened to Rabb, don't you?"

Victor laughed hollowly. "Considering that you're married to the opposing council, I think I'd better plead the fifth on that one."

Sturgis considered Galindez for a moment. "You got a dollar?" He asked at last.

"What?"

"A dollar," Sturgis said calmly. "…a buck, a George, you got it?"

Galindez frowned. "Sure," he said, cautiously, not quite certain where this was leading.

"Give it to me," Sturgis ordered.

Digging into the pocket of his jeans, Victor pulled out his wallet and extracted a bill. Sturgis took it from him, calmly folded it and stuck it in his own pocket.

"You have now just put me on retainer," Turner informed him. "As your lawyer, I am bound by attorney-client privilege. Anything you may choose to say to me cannot be revealed to anyone else –including and especially my wife—without your express permission."

Galindez raised one eyebrow. "You're still licensed to practice? I thought you were commanding deep water ops for the Pentagon."

Sturgis allowed a slow smile to spread across his face. "Well, the shingle might be a little dusty," he allowed, "but last I checked it's still good. I registered with the Virginia bar last year.--Figured I might pick up a case or two when I retired."

Crossing his arms, he leaned against the stone ledge, half sitting in the gap left by the erstwhile geranium. "Now," he said easily, "you strike me as a man with a story to get off his chest. Whether or not you tell it, now that's completely up to you, but you've got my word that it stays right here." Sturgis shot him a calculating look. "Besides," he said shrewdly, "Daddy always said confession was good for the soul."

Galindez snorted and shook his head, looking at the car. He suddenly thought he understood exactly how Clay felt. "I wouldn't even know where to start," he said at last.

"How about the truth?" Sturgis suggested quietly.

Galindez looked back over his shoulder and threw Turner a wry smile. "And just which truth would that be?"

"It really isn't Harm in that grave, is it?" Sturgis asked.

"No," Victor said softly, surprised to hear the word on his own tongue. He hadn't meant to answer.

"Is he dead?"

"Yes."

Sturgis took a moment, absorbing the certainty he heard in Victor's voice, and then continued. "Did the CIA have anything to do with it?"

Victor laughed hollowly. "No," he said at last. "The truly ironic thing is that they didn't know a damned thing about it. –We did it all ourselves."

_Taedong__River__,_

_Somewhere in __North Korea___

_Ten Years earlier…_

            The sails of the small fishing boat caught the swift spring breeze and sliced the craft smoothly and silently through the black waters of the Taedong River. The moon was little more than a thin sliver in the midnight sky, radiating barely enough light to discern the tree tops from the sky line. It was the perfect night for this kind of operation. Just enough light to see what you were doing, and just enough dark for no one else to notice. Back home in New Mexico, they would have called it a rustler's moon. Glancing around the shabby little boat with its crew of silent men in dark clothing, Galindez supposed that it was a smuggler's moon as well.

            The men moved quietly about their work. They seemed like little more than swift, efficient shadows and their soft hushed tones blended easily with the sounds of the water and the night creatures. By contrast, the conversation in hushed and halting English carried far too easily from the stern of the boat to his own ears.

            "So, you figured out how much this is gonna set me back yet?" He could hear the gentle amusement in Rabb's voice and snuck a quick glance at the Navy intelligence officer. Rabb was crouched down behind the open structure that served as the pilot house and rearranging a few sacks of rice to make a pallet for the boy.

            Kim considered the question with a gravity that made him look far older than his years. "Yes," he said at last. "I have chosen my price."

            The boy hesitated, hope and fear warring for control of his features. Whatever it was, Victor thought, it was going to be big, for the boy was clearly afraid to ask.

            "Well?" Rabb prompted.

            Kim swallowed hard, and the words spilled out of him in a rush that was almost incoherent. "I go with you to America."

            Well, hell, Galindez thought sourly. He hadn't seen that one coming. –Apparently Rabb hadn't either, for he didn't speak for several long moments.

            "I don't know if that is possible, Kim," Rabb said carefully. "There are laws and rules about something like that. They would have to find your parents…"

            "My mother is dead," Kim said, his voice was blunt and without emotion.

            And likely, Victor thought, he had never known his father.

            Harm nodded, "I know," he said quietly, "But that still doesn't mean that the government will just allow me to take you with me. They will have to appoint a guardian. We would need to get permission. You would have to have special papers."

            "I get papers!" Kim said scornfully. "I get papers that say anything!"

            "Kim," Harm said patiently, "It's not that easy."

            "I go with you!" the boy pleaded, his brown eyes desperate. "I work hard! I can get you whatever you need!"

            Sensing Kim's rising agitation, Harm nodded and laid a hand upon the thin shoulder. "I said it wouldn't be easy," he reminded the boy. "I didn't say it was impossible."

            He tightened his grip upon the boy and fixed him with a serious expression. "It's a big price for a big favor." He said quietly. "Like you said earlier, this is no small thing. You have to be serious about this, Kim. You have to be sure that it's what you really want. And if it is, then we have to do it the right way. –It's the only way it will work."

            Kim nodded his understanding.

            "You'll have to be patient," Rabb warned. "This will take time. –And they might not let you go with me. I travel a lot. So much that I don't really have a home any more. They might say that you'll have to live with someone else. Would you still want to do this?"

            "Yes," Kim whispered fiercely.

            "OK," Harm said simply. "I have friends who can help. When we get out of this, we'll go and talk to them."

            "Promise?"

            Rabb ruffled the kid's hair. "Yeah, kid," he said gruffly, "I promise."

            The conversation died away as Rabb told the kid to go to sleep and sat with him a while, watching the gray foam that eddied in the boat's wake as it forged its way up stream. Victor finished wiping down the automatic weapon he had been cleaning and set it aside. He picked up the next weapon, a high-powered rifle with a silencer and scope and began to oil it. He heard the soft creak of the deck board behind him and looked up to see Rabb standing over him.

            "You should get some shut-eye, Gunny."

            Galindez smiled. "Nah, I tried that already."

            Rabb smiled faintly. "It must be a Marine thing."

            "What?"

            Rabb nodded to the rifle. "Cleaning guns. Mac always cleaned guns when she couldn't sleep."

            Galindez chuckled. "An old platoon sergeant of mine back in San Diego used to say a clean gun was a happy gun. Happy guns have never let me down yet."

            Bracing himself against a steel drum, Rabb slowly slid down to the deck and sat across from Galindez. His eyes traveled slowly over the crew and his voice dropped to a soft murmur as he spoke.

            "So what do you think?"

            Victor raised his eyes and quietly surveyed the men around them. "I wouldn't trust them as far as I can pick them up and throw them, but they seem to know the country and they look like they can fight."

            His eyes traveled the perimeter of the boat, and he hesitated. "I'm not so sure that was a good idea, though."

            "What?" Rabb asked.

            Galindez nodded to the boy who was now asleep on the sacks of rice. "Bringing the kid along," he said quietly. "This whole plan is risky enough. A kid could be a real liability."

            "Or an asset," Rabb countered. "How's your Korean lately?"

            "Rusty," Galindez admitted ruefully.

            "Yeah, well mine's non-existent," Rabb muttered and tilted his head to indicate the rest of the smuggling crew. "And if any of these guys speak English, they sure don't show it. –Not that I'd put much faith in them if they did."

            Rabb carefully scanned the silent figures that piloted the boat. "Out of this whole lot, the kid's the only one I trust."

            "That could be one too many," Victor warned, setting aside the rifle. "Don't forget, the kid's the one who brought us to them."

            Rabb scowled. "He's a good kid, Gunny."

            Galindez shrugged. "There's a lot of good kids out there. Afghanistan, Iraq, Lebannon…. Not all of them are on our side."

            Rabb looked at him thoughtfully. "You've changed, Galindez." The tone of his voice indicated that he did not necessarily think it was for the better. "You sound almost as cynical as Webb."

            Galindez smiled faintly. "It's kept me alive this far."

            Rabb was silent for a moment. "I still can't believe you left the Marines. I always figured you'd go the full twenty."

            Galindez chuckled. "Yeah, me too."

            "So why'd you do it?"

            "Jump ship?"

            Rabb nodded.

            Galindez shrugged. "Webb offered me the opportunity. I took it." He slid back the bolt on the rifle, and worked the action a few times to make sure it was smooth, then laid it aside. "I never looked back."

            Rabb looked at him curiously. "You took the job because of Webb?"

            Galindez drew his knees up to his chest and braced his arms across them. "More or less," he said easily. "After Afghanistan and Paraguay, Webb tagged me for a couple more ops when I was still in the Corps. I didn't turn him down. We worked ok together, and it beat crawling around between the sand dunes trying not to get my six shot off. It was something different –and sometimes a hell of a lot more dangerous—but it had its perks, too." Galindez paused. "It felt like we were actually making a difference, you know?"

            Rabb looked at him as if he had suddenly grown a second head. "You mean to tell me you actually like working with Webb?"

            Galindez raised an eyebrow. "You don't?"

            Rabb shifted against the bulkhead and the faint sliver of moonlight caught the white of his teeth as the grin slashed across his face. "Well, I'll grant you that working with Webb has never been boring, but I don't know that I'd go right to 'like.'"

            Galindez chuckled. "That's because the two of you are too much alike. –Both of you always want to be in charge. Me? I just keep my mouth shut and follow orders …and improvise when necessary. It's a lot simpler that way."

            "Still, being Webb's man Friday can't always be that easy."

            "Not always," Galindez admitted, "but it's better than a lot of other things I've done."

            He leaned his head back against the side of the boat and stared thoughtfully up at the stars, contemplating the man that they were risking everything to rescue. "You know, he's different than most people think," Galindez said quietly. "He comes off as an arrogant hard-ass. Nothing bothers him, nothing gets to him. It's all about the job and the mission. Nothing else matters. He does what has to be done, and damn the consequences. –But it's all an act."

            "Yeah? --Well, he's one hell of an actor," Rabb said dryly.

            Galindez nodded. "One of the best," he agreed, "But don't let him fool you. It gets to him. –More than he wants to admit."

            "He's not an easy man to get to know," Harm said quietly. 

            Victor seemed to consider this. "He's a good man," he said finally, "…and a good friend." Galindez lifted one shoulder. "I guess that's all I really need to know."

            "Maybe so," Harm agreed, surprised at the conviction in the other man's words.

He realized that it wasn't so much the depth of feeling, but the bond that inspired it that caught him off guard. When he'd heard Galindez had transferred to the CIA and was working with Webb, he'd never really given much thought to their working relationship. He'd thrown it into the usual category of superior and subordinate, leader and follower. Somehow, he'd never really expected them to be friends. 

For one thing, it just didn't fit the pattern. Webb's Harvard educated, old money background and Galindez's impoverished back street upbringing were enough of an unlikely combination without even factoring in their personalities. Webb was brusque, arrogant, and hard-nosed even on his best days. Galindez, by contrast, was usually quiet, polite, and soft-spoken. They shouldn't have gotten along, but they did. 

Rabb shifted uncomfortably against the hard deck of the small boat. His own relationship with Webb was far more ambivalent, and it tweaked him a little to realize that in a couple short years Victor Galindez had somehow developed a far better picture of Clayton Webb than he had been able to in almost fifteen. This made him consider his own acquaintance with the acerbic spy and he wondered –not for the first time—just what in the hell it was that he was really doing here.

It wasn't like he and Webb were the best of friends. Hell, they hadn't seen each other in five years. And even then, they'd hardly been bosom buddies. Outside of work, they'd rarely spoken, and yet there was something in their association that was more than just business. There was a willingness to do for each other that went beyond the bounds of quid pro quo, and he really had no other name to give it but friendship. But was it possible to call a man of whom one knew so little a friend?

When he thought back over the years, he realized that Clayton Webb had always been something of an enigma. He'd known almost nothing about Webb's private life until that case with Clark Palmer and the superconductor, back when everyone had thought he was dead. He'd learned more about the man that day by walking through his empty townhouse and talking with his mother than he'd learned in all the years he'd known him. He could count on one hand the personal details he had gleaned over the years. Webb liked seafood and polish dogs. He was a former Olympian. He played the piano and cello. He kept fish. He danced a mean tango, and his mother was one wily old broad. In retrospect, Harm supposed that it wasn't a lot to show for someone he'd known for over half his career. Hell, he didn't even know what Webb's favorite color was. 

But in spite of it all, Webb had been a friend. He'd kept an eye out for information on Harm's father. Webb had sprung him from prison when he'd been framed for murder, and one Christmas Eve, he'd risked life and limb to get Sergei out of Chechnya. He'd nearly tanked his career turning over the Angel Shark tape. And, much as Harm hated to admit it, the spook had saved his own neck more times than he could count –and maybe even more times than he knew of. All of which, the small voice inside him gently chided, begged the question: What had he done for Clayton Webb in return?

He'd helped him out with a few missions of course, but that was work. He'd gone looking for his "killer" when Clay had had to go underground after skirmishing with Palmer. But that had been guilt. He'd resigned his commission, hopped a plane to Paraguay and ended up pulling what was left of Webb's ass out Sadik Fahd's hell-hole before they finished torturing him to death. But that really hadn't been about Webb at all. His only thought had been for Mac. 

_Mac. _

Harm closed his eyes against the old hurt. He'd stood there on their wedding day, and kept his silence when the minister had asked for objections, but that had been common courtesy. And when the wedding was over, and the vows were made, he'd walked out of their lives and never looked back. That, he thought bitterly, had been cowardice. But the question remained: what had he done for Clay?

A half-forgotten memory came to him suddenly of Webb, younger, thinner, more uncertain of himself, standing beside that fancy red BMW he used to drive. It had been the night Jason Magita had taken Mac and the Admiral hostage, and he'd been pressing Webb once again for a favor. Webb's patience had suddenly snapped and he'd rounded on him suddenly, anger burning brightly in his eyes.

_"You don't do it for me, Harm,"_ Webb's voice, exasperated, and more than a little pained, echoed softly in his memory. _"—Never for me…"_

Webb had been right about that. The bitch of it was that he really wasn't doing it for Webb this time, either. But he should have. Just once, he should have put it on the line for Clayton Webb, and nothing more.

"So what about you?" Galindez's voice broke the silence and interrupted the downward spiral of his thoughts. "You're giving me grief about jumping ship. Why did you decide to move to Naval Intelligence?"

Rabb grinned. "I don't know. I guess I figured it was a shame to let all that Company training go to waste."

Galindez snorted. "If you'd really thought that, you'd have been more careful to keep your face off of ZNN." The younger man sobered, "Maybe that's not the real question after all."

"What is?" Rabb asked. He could feel Victor's eyes upon him, black and penetrating.

"Why did you transfer out of JAG?"

Rabb hesitated as he considered the real purpose behind the question. He supposed there were a lot of answers that he could give to that question, but Victor Galindez wasn't stupid. He resisted the urge to stare out across the water, and forced himself to look at Galindez instead.

"I think that's obvious, isn't it?"

"You left because of them?" There was no need to clarify which "them" they were talking about.

Rabb nodded.

Galindez considered this for a moment. "You did the right thing."

_For all the wrong reasons,_ Rabb thought, but instead, he shrugged. "A marriage isn't big enough for three people."

"And she needed to move on," Victor said quietly. "All of you did."

"She moved on," Harm murmured, not quite able to contain the bitter flavor of his words. "A rich husband, a cute kid, a house in the suburbs and a bench to sit on --she finally got everything she ever wanted."

"Not everything." Galindez said.

"No," Harm agreed softly. There had been a time when she had wanted him.

The small sounds of the night intruded once more. The whispers of the crew, the gentle lapping of the water against the sides of the boat, the soft calls of the night birds and insects slowly crept in to fill the space between them.

"They really are good together," Victor said finally. "You shouldn't hold it against them."

Rabb sighed. "I don't hold it against them."

Galindez chuckled. "The hell you don't."

Rabb smiled faintly. "The hell I don't," he admitted, and rolled his head back to study the other man more carefully.

"Is she happy?"

The multitude of emotions that suddenly rolled across Galindez's face, could have filled a volume, but in the end, he simply shrugged. "Is anyone?"

But he must have sensed Rabb's deep need to hear the answer, for he finally expelled a long, weary breath. 

"They love each other," he said quietly, "…and they adore that little girl." He hesitated. "Yeah," he whispered, "I think she's happy."

Rabb nodded, feeling the old ache tighten in his chest once again. He'd known that. He supposed he'd always known that, but he needed to be certain –now more than ever.

From somewhere near the front of the boat, a voice called out in Korean. The words were hushed, but tinged with excitement. From behind them, the captain bit out a sharp order and cut out instantly, leaving the small fishing boat to drift aimlessly in the water. Both men were craning their necks, hoping to spot the cause of the excitement, when the small, silent form of the Korean woman suddenly drifted over them. She brought a hand to her lips in an age-old gesture of silence, and motioned for them to stay down. They nodded their understanding, and wordlessly pressed themselves to the deck, ears straining and hearts racing loudly in the sudden, tense silence of the night.

A minute later, they heard it: the deep throaty chug of a diesel engine as the other vessel drew near. A voice echoed out across the water, tinny and crackling with the static of the cheap bull horn. The Captain called back. His voice was easy and cheerful, belying the tension that had gripped every member of his crew. There was no response, but a moment later the blinding beam of the flood light swept across the length of the craft. Rabb caught a glimpse of Galindez as the beam spilled over the bulkhead above them. His face was cold and ready, his fingers were inches from the rifle.

Several long minutes of waiting followed. –Probably no more than four or five, but it felt like an eternity to Rabb as he lay there with his cheek pressed tight to the worn, reeking deck of the old fishing boat. He locked eyes with Galindez, and they stared at each other all through the rest of the long, intense minutes that followed.

The voice on the loudspeaker reverberated again. The captain shouted back a response. The floodlight switched off abruptly. The sound of the diesel engine faded once more into the night.

"What the hell was that?" Rabb asked a few moments later, when they were assured the coast was clear.

"North Korean river patrol," Galindez replied. "Captain told them we were a fishing boat, on the way home to a village upstream. –At least that's what I think he said."

Rabb shot him a meaningful look. "Good thing they didn't decide to board us and ask what we were fishing for."

Galindez grinned. "Not much chance of that. He called one of them by name. If these guys are any kind of smugglers, they've probably already bought off every official on the river."

"Speaking of payoffs," Rabb said, raising a meaningful eyebrow.

Galindez shifted and pulled out the hard sided aluminum briefcase he had tucked behind his back. He shoved it across the deck towards Rabb.

"What have you got in there, anyway? –If you don't mind my asking, that is."

Rabb laid the briefcase across his lap and splayed his hands protectively over the cool metal surface. "Webb's money got us in," he said simply, "but this will get him out."

"What is it?"

Rabb shook his head and smiled faintly. "I think this is another one of those cases where the less you know, the better."

Galindez's eyes narrowed. "And you say _I _sound like Webb."

Rabb's expression was uneasy. "You know, this whole thing is still a crap shoot," he said quietly. "I've been thinking about the exchange tomorrow. I don't think we should go in together. It will be better if we split up."

Galindez nodded. "Agreed," he said. "These guys may have the means to get us in and out, but that doesn't mean I trust them to cover our sixes. One of us needs to find the high ground and cover and play guardian angel while the deal goes down."

"That would be you," Rabb said.

Galindez frowned. "No way," he said flatly. "You're not going anywhere near the camp. I'll make the exchange."

Rabb sighed. "Not the logical choice, Victor. You're the Marine with the expert marksman badge." He nodded to the sniper rifle. "I took my shots with laser guided missiles and a RIO to tell me when to pull the trigger. You'll be lucky if I don't shoot you by mistake."

Galindez shrugged. "I've seen you with a rifle. I'm willing to take that chance." He paused, "but I'm not willing to risk you going in there and getting captured. Bad enough they've got Webb. If they take you it will be a disaster."

Galindez leaned forward and dropped his voice even lower. "You and I both know those photographs you laid on the Ambassador and the Secretary of State this morning weren't taken by any damned satellite. When they break Webb, they'll get the whole Asian network. –They'll know every major player that we have in the orient. None of our people will be safe. If they get you, they'll get the most sophisticated plane that's ever been built." He shook his head, "we're already running the risk of losing our human intelligence network. We lose our technology and we'll be going into this war blind. The answer is no, Captain. There is no way in hell you are going into that camp."

Rabb ground his teeth. It was a hell of a lousy time for Galindez to demonstrate his leadership ability. There was only one way that this was going to work. He had to make him see that. He drew a deep breath and summoned what was left of his patience.

"Look, Gunny," he cajoled, "I have to go in. What I'm handing over to them is technical as hell. I'll have to explain some of it, and I don't have the time to teach you. –And you're still the better shot with the rifle."

Galindez lifted one eyebrow. "Then I would say we are at an impasse."

The night wind rose softly, blowing the heavy odors of the river and the dank, oily smell of the fishing boat between them as they sat, stone faced and glaring at each other.

"You know it's the best way." Rabb said.

"I know."

Rabb hesitated. "I will give you one thing," he said at last. "If this thing goes down wrong, none of us can afford to be taken alive."

Galindez tilted his head, his brown eyes burning with the unspoken question. Rabb nodded slowly. "They've got Webb. They'll get your people. They get me, they'll get Aurora, and nobody will be safe. I need you to promise me, Victor." He said softly. "I need you to promise me that you'll make sure it never comes that."

Victor felt the knot tighten in his stomach as he realized exactly what Rabb was asking, but he had to be certain. He had to be sure.

"How?" He whispered. His voice was so quiet that it could barely be heard above the chugging of the engines.

Rabb's eyes seemed to bore into his soul, clear and dark and cold in their intensity. "You know how," he murmured.

Galindez eyed him for a long moment. "Alright," he said finally, "—on one condition."

"What?"

 "Don't let it come to that. This is one promise I don't want to have to keep."

***

            Galindez leaned heavily against the low stone wall. His eyes were fixed upon the mess that was Webb's convertible, but Turner could see that his mind was still trapped ten years back on a seedy little boat on a river in North Korea. It explained a hell of a lot, he realized. –Especially the wall that Bobbie, Bud and Mac had been running into with the Navy. It was just like Harm to go running off to play cowboy and not tell anyone about it. And given the fact that both Harm and Galindez had been working for and with people who made it their job to know everything, he highly doubted that either one of their respective agencies would have wanted to admit that they hadn't known what the two men had been up to with their plan to rescue Webb. He shook his head in amazement. It was fool hardy. It was insane. It was also classic Harmon Rabb. Given the charmed life that Rabb had led, that alone should have ensured its success. But apparently, Harm's charm had run out.

            Sturgis studied Galindez, trying to read the jumble of emotions that were still evident on the man's face. There was sadness there, and guilt …and anger. All of it combined to remind him that he still really didn't know what had happened to Harm. But whatever it was, he could tell that it was something Victor Galindez was still struggling to accept, all these years later.

            "I take it things didn't go down as planned?" he asked gently, hoping to prod more of the story from the man.

            Galindez  laughed. It was a harsh, painful sound, and Sturgis once again sensed the anger that was buried deep inside the CIA operative. 

            "Oh, it went according to plan, alright." Galindez said grimly. "The only trouble was that I didn't know the plan."

            "What?" Sturgis asked, confused.

            Victor's jaw tightened. "I should have known what he was up to. I should have figured it out." He shook his head. "But he played me. The son of a bitch played me, and by the time I realized, it was already too late."

            Galindez's eyes swung to Turner's and Sturgis could read the guilt and self-reproach that burned within them. "If I'd known what he was going to do, I never would have let him do it," he said softly. "I just didn't think he'd do something so crazy."

            "What did Harm do, Victor?" Turner asked, feeling the cold chill begin to creep over him.

            Galindez didn't answer. He seemed to be lost in his own thoughts and memories. He shook his head as if trying to puzzle out some mystery with an answer that he knew must be obvious but still couldn't see.

            "All these years," he said softly, "I've always wondered why he did it." He shook his head. "I guess never knowing is the price I have to pay."

            "For what?" Turner asked.

            Galindez smiled sadly. "For making that promise," he said.


	17. Chapter 17

AN: Whoops! I'd completely forgotten about the rating when posting this chapter, I'd actually meant to tone the description at the end of this down (which I now have). Thanks, Iska, for the reminder. Certainly don't want to offend anyone on that level, and I hope it's still not too strong, but I want to give those following the story a heads up: the next two chapters get even darker and some serious violence will ensue, so after this the rating is definitely going up to R. 

**Chapter Seventeen**

            _It's your fault…_

_Your fault…_

_Your fault…_

            Penny's words, harsh and angry, echoed through her head. She put on a rush of speed and tried to outrun the memory of her daughter's tear-streaked face, but it was useless. The words still whispered inside her, keeping perfect cadence with the pounding of her feet.

            _Your fault…your fault…your fault…_

            Somewhere along the path the old Marine Corps training kicked in, reminding her to take control. She steadied her ragged breathing, fighting back the sobs and expelling them in neat, regulated breaths. She began to pace her strides, reining in her headlong rush to a smooth, ground-eating lope. It didn't make the words go away, but at least she wasn't running from them anymore. She was running with them.

            It _was her fault. She had lost control. She had committed the one act she found to be truly unforgivable: She had struck her child in anger._

            From somewhere deep inside her, she felt the cold dark horror well up. She'd spent fourteen years living in fear of this moment. She wasn't a fool. She knew the statistics. The cycle of abuse resonated through the generations. Children who were abused grew up to be abusers. She'd lived in fear of that fact for longer than she could remember. It was one of the things that had driven her to seek refuge in the Corps. She'd thought that if she could learn discipline, if she could learn self-control, she might be able to beat the odds and overcome her past. But now, she thought of Penny. She remembered the way Penny had reeled from the blow, the shock and pain that had crossed her features …and the tiny hint of fear that had crept into her daughter's eyes. In that instant, she'd felt the cold chill of realization sweep through her. She was no better than Joe Mackenzie.

            She couldn't process it, couldn't deal –couldn't think. She had done the unthinkable. She had hit her daughter. Her breath caught on another sob. Oh, God! What was she going to do? What if she couldn't control it? Her father had never been able to. What would she do if it happened again? She already knew the answer to that:

            She would lose Penny. She would lose Clay.

_'But maybe…_ the small, insidious voice whispered inside her '…_maybe you've already lost them.'     _

***

            Which way? Right or left?

            Clay screeched the Altima to a stop at the quiet intersection and felt the panic creep over him as he glanced in both directions down the empty street. There was no sign of her anywhere. God damn it! She couldn't have gone far.

            He drummed his fingers on the steering wheel. Right or left. It was a simple choice, a fifty-fifty chance. If he chose correctly, he'd spot her in a matter of minutes. But if he chose wrong, his odds of success went down drastically. He tightened his hands upon the wheel. He couldn't lose her now.

            His hands felt cold and damp upon the leather grips. He couldn't seem to get his breath and he was vaguely aware of the dull, leaden pain upon his chest. He fumbled in his pocket for the small vial the doctor had instructed him to carry at all times, and impatiently shook two of the tiny white pills out into his palm. Damn! He didn't have time for this! He had to find her.

            He popped the pills dry, grimacing slightly as they clung to his throat and forced himself to take a deep, slow breath. He had to stay calm. He had to keep his head. He carefully surveyed both sides of the street. Right or left? Which way would she go?

            _'Damn it, think.'_

_            Think._

That was it. She was upset. She wouldn't think. She would just run. She'd follow the easiest path. She couldn't go straight. This was a T-intersection. She'd stick to the sidewalk, follow the easiest path. She would turn right. He pressed his foot to the accelerator and whipped the wheel to the right, sending the Altima roaring down the street in the direction he prayed she had taken.

            Eight seconds later, a blue Ford Taurus coasted to a stop in the Altima's place. The driver of the Taurus waited for a long moment, listening intently to his cell phone and watching as the small black sedan disappeared down the street. After an equally long moment of indecision, the Taurus turned left. 

***

            She ran until the stitch in her side brought her up short, and then she stopped, gasping for breath. She wiped fiercely at the angry tears that still streamed down her cheeks and looked about, trying to get her bearings. She barely knew where she was and she didn't have the slightest idea of where she was going. –Let alone how she would get there.

            She reached into the pocket of her jeans and pulled out the small wad of bills –leftover change from the market. There wasn't enough for cab fare, but enough for a Metro pass. She began to walk, her pace more steady and purposeful. The Metro it was, then. The Metro to where, exactly, she had no idea.

            She wasn't far from the Braddock Street Station and she began to pick up her pace as her anger started to simmer to a rising head of steam. Now that she'd had time to absorb the full impact of the events that had unfolded in the driveway, her fear was slowly churning to fury, but who it was directed at she wasn't exactly sure. Everyone, she decided at last. –Penny, Clay, Victor –everyone. Most of all, she was angry with herself. She scowled down at the crumpled ten dollar bill in her hand and felt the wave of self-disgust roll over her as she realized that she didn't even have enough money to take her home. God, she was truly pathetic.

A black car sped down the street towards her, passing her at a rapid clip and she felt her heart skip a beat as she heard the engine slow abruptly. The brakes squealed as the car was thrown into an unexpected U-turn and raced back in her direction. It was a black Nissan.

            Victor. Damn.

            She didn't want to face him. She didn't want to face anyone right now. Then she froze as Penny's angry accusations echoed furiously in her ears.

            _It's your fault! …You want him to die!_

            Oh. God. –What if?

            The Altima screeched to a stop beside her. She forced herself to turn to it, her heart racing as the passenger window whispered down. It wasn't Victor. It was Clay.

            His face was pale, his fingers clenched tightly around the wheel. His jaw was set and his expression grim.

            "Get in."

            "Go to hell," she snapped, and turned to stalk back down the street. He eased his foot off the brake, allowing the car to coast forward.

            "Believe me, I'm already there," he retorted, and cursed softly under his breath. She refused even to acknowledge him. He let the car roll forward, keeping pace with her.

            "Fine," he said at last. "If this is the way you want to play it, go ahead. But if you want to know that truth about Harm, you'll get in the damned car."

            She stopped. Damn him! He always knew exactly what to say to get to her. She glared back at him. He was staring at her openly now, his eyes intent.

            "Get in the car, Sarah," he said softly.

            She got in.

***

            They rode quietly down the Jefferson Davis Highway. Neither one spoke, neither one looked at anything but the view through the windshield before them. She didn't ask where he was taking her. She didn't have to. There was really only one place they could have this conversation. It was private, it was appropriate, and in the end, she knew that it was perhaps the only place left where they might be completely honest with each other. Their sense of honor –if not their love—demanded it. There was no place on such sacred ground for anything but truth.

            The security was tight today, a dismal fact of life in a country that was no longer untouched by terrorism. National holidays were always the worst as they put much of the nation's Capitol and its treasured monuments under a protective lockdown. Still, it did not seem to dim the enthusiasm of the throngs of visitors who filled the broad sidewalks lining the grand Memorial Drive, pausing here and there to admire the impressive monuments to long-dead heroes of half-forgotten wars.

            Parking was at a premium, and Clay had to flash his Agency credentials to at least three different guards at the security checkpoints before they were finally waved on to the VIP parking. Stepping out of the vehicle, Sarah closed the car door with a soft, firm thud. Slowly, she let her gaze wander up the hillside to the silent, sandstone majesty of Arlington House.

            She could never quite repress the melancholy feeling that swept over her whenever she gazed upon the structure. A house was meant to be lived in and loved in. At one time, meals had been taken at those highly polished tables. Children had played through its grand halls. Parents had passed leisurely afternoons in the cooling breezes that had wafted beneath its stately portico. The venerable old house had been meant to shelter life, not to stand a silent watch over the countless thousands of a nation's dead. Arlington House had lost its soul. It had lost its family. 

            Now it stood silent and alone, an empty shell of what it once had been. She could empathize with the house, she thought, as she slowly followed Clay down the sidewalk. She was feeling a bit like an empty shell herself. 

Throngs of tourists lined the sidewalks around the visitor center, and the congestion was only made worse by those who paused to admire the long rows of brightly colored wreaths that lined the entrance to the Roosevelt gate. She followed Clay as he forged impatiently through the clumps of visitors and cut south along Halsey Drive toward the newer section of the cemetery and away from the holiday sight-seers.

            The crowds tapered off almost instantly. Larger groups soon trickled down few who had come here to visit the graves of friends or relatives rather than immerse themselves in heroes and history. They walked silently, each so lost in their own thoughts that they might have appeared to be two strangers walking in the same general direction. It wasn't far from the truth, she thought. She still wasn't quite able to reconcile the silent, brooding man beside her with the one she thought she had known …and loved.

            On any other day, under any other circumstances, it would have been a lovely walk. The spring blooms hung heavy from the permanent plantings and shrubbery. Between the multitudes of wreaths and flowers and the thousands of tiny American flags that fluttered gallantly at each grave, Arlington was a riot of color. But with each step they took, the more her anxiety grew and the heavier her heart seemed to weigh in her chest. She slowed a bit, letting Clay take the lead, and for the first time she noticed the slight hitch in his breathing and the unhealthy pallor of his skin. She was still furious with him, but not enough to completely ignore the small niggle of guilt or the rising tide of concern that welled up within her. He really didn't look good. –And he was only a day out of the hospital. He shouldn't even have been going to that party, let alone out here, tramping around the grounds of Arlington …or fighting with her.

            _'What are you trying to do? –Kill him?' _

            More of Penny's words twisted at her gut, and this time it brought her up short. What was wrong with her? She snuck another small glance at him, noting the lines of fatigue in his face, then reached out and lightly brushed his arm.

            He stopped. There was a faint question in his eyes, but his face was otherwise carefully schooled to avoid all expression. She tilted her head to indicate one of the red, white and blue tourist buses as it rumbled past them.

            "Maybe we should ride."

            He bristled slightly, his head and shoulders pulling back as he drew himself up to his full height. The hazel eyes fairly snapped to olive green and his mouth drew down in an expression of distaste as he shot a glance back to the visitor center, with its long lines forming in front of the bus stop.

            "I'd rather walk."

            Her mouth thinned. That was his pride talking. Still, she knew it would do no good to argue with him. Instead, she remained silent, continuing to hold his gaze. After all, she had his number –and he knew it.

            His shoulders sagged slightly as the puff went out of him. He he looked away from her to take in the long expanse of open, slightly rolling ground before them. It wasn't far, but it was far enough and he shot her a rueful smile.

            "Maybe we could take it a little slower," he admitted.

            She said nothing, merely nodded and fell into step beside him, taking care to consciously match her pace to his.

            Fifteen minutes later, they paused at the familiar crossroads of York and Marshall Drives. Clay thrust his hands into his pockets and looked up the long slope of the hillside to the place where the Tomb of the Unknowns stood its silent sentry. A small muscle twitched in his jaw, and then he turned abruptly and fixed his gaze unerringly upon the spot they had come to see: the simple stone, with its flag and the flowers she had so carefully laid out only two days before.

            He shot her a sharp look from the corner of his eye, silently asking if she was ready. She was not, she realized, but now that the moment was at hand, there was no avoiding it, and she carefully followed him through the grid of stones.

            They came to a stop before the grave. The arrangement of flowers was slightly cockeyed, buffeted no doubt by the brisk spring winds. Wordlessly, she knelt and carefully adjusted it until it once again stood straight and pleasing to the eye. She could feel his eyes upon her the entire time, watchful and assessing. She kept waiting for him to speak, but he didn't and she finally realized that he was waiting for her.

            Sarah suppressed a bubble of frustrated laughter at the irony of the situation. After all these years, all the secrets and all the lies, they finally had reached the moment of truth, and neither one of them knew where to begin.   She rose to her feet so that they stood eye to eye and he tilted his head slightly as he waited for the question.

            She did not ask it.

            She did not need to. She knew that Harm was dead. She had always known. She couldn't explain it, but she knew it in her heart. She believed now that she'd felt it when it had happened, all those years ago on that long ago night when her anxiety over Clay had suddenly turned to inexplicable dread and a certain knowledge of some terrible occurrence. She just hadn't understood at the time exactly what it meant. Now she did. –Or at least she thought she was beginning to. But she had to be certain. She had to know the truth of it. It was time, and she was ready.

            "Tell me Clay," she said, meeting his eyes with her own direct gaze. "Tell me all of it."

            He nodded slowly, but held his silence and she could see that he was struggling for the right words to begin. When he finally found them, his voice sounded dry and thin and he seemed to stumble a bit over the words.

            "I –I can't tell you everything," he said. "Some of it really is classified. –Some of it, even I don't know all of what happened. But I'll tell you what I can."

            His hands, still thrust deep into his pockets, balled tightly into fists and he drew another deep breath as he continued on. "There was a mission," he admitted, "but it didn't have anything to do with Rabb. I had to go into North Korea to meet an agent and give him information. Some of the information I needed the CIA didn't have access to. So we requested a briefing …from Navy Intelligence."

            "And they sent Harm," Sarah guessed, feeling the eerie calm steel over her as the rest of the old, familiar scenario played out in her head. Clay would have offered Harm the opportunity for a little adventure, and Harm, tired of sitting behind a desk would have jumped at the chance. Then, as it always did whenever the two of them tried to work together, it would have all gone straight to hell.

            He must have read something of her thoughts, for his face seemed to tighten with anger. "It's not what you think, Sarah," he said quickly. "Harm was never directly involved in that mission. I asked the Navy for information. He delivered it to me, and we went our separate ways. When I walked out of that briefing, his part in it was over."

            "If he wasn't a part of your mission, then what did happen?" she asked, tired of his dancing around the subject.

            He laughed harshly. "A lot of things I didn't expect."

            "Like what?"

            He pulled his eyes away from hers and stared down at the headstone. "My cover was blown …I was captured…" He drew another sharp breath, and a muscle twitched in his cheek. "I would have died there, Sarah. It was that close. I was ready for it. I was—

            He suppressed a small shiver and paused, searching for the right words to explain. When he found his voice again, it was rough with emotion. "You have to understand," he grated, "I didn't expect anyone to come after me …and I never dreamed it would be him..."

***

_Ten years earlier…_

_Somewhere in __North Korea___

            Clay watched the thin ray of sunlight as it traveled across the worn concrete floor on its slow path from the doorway to the wall. He marked each tedious inch of its progress as it crept across the corner of his straw pallet, past the table leg, past the chair, and edged inexorably closer to the mark he had scratched into the floor with the pen.

            The mark had served a two-fold purpose. It had been the place he'd chosen, out of sight of the camera, to hone the blunted end of the pen to a sharp point. But more importantly, when the tiny beam of sunlight crossed this self-described finish line, the groove would also serve to mark the hour of his death. He studied the job he had made of the pen with a critical eye and determined it would do. It wasn't going to be pleasant, but it would do the job –if he had the nerve. 

He pressed the sharpened point of the pen into the ball of his thumb and fought back a bitter smile. Yi really was a bastard. –Either that or he was a master of irony. This was the same way Atef had done it –with a goddamned ball point pen. Yi had to know that. It was probably in the file. He leaned his head back against the hard, unyielding stone of the wall, suddenly tired. Even in death they would test him.

He glanced back to the sunbeam's progress. It was less than six inches from the scratch in the floor. A few more minutes, he judged, and closed his eyes to order his thoughts.

It never should have come to this. He wanted to blame Patterson. The man was a pompous fool. If he'd been even half way competent at his job, he'd have provided Webb with a reliable guide, instead of the slimly little worm that had sold him out. But the fact of the matter was that the mission was ill-timed and done on short planning at best. Even Patterson had admitted that Kwan was not his first choice, but he'd been the only one available. 

Clay would have liked to strangle Benny Kwan. He wouldn't even think twice about doing it if he had a hope in hell of getting out of this, but he couldn't blame the little weasel. For Kwan, it was simply a good business transaction. The CIA had paid him to take Webb in, and the North Koreans had paid Kwan even more to leave him here. Benny Kwan might be a greedy little bastard, but in the end, Clay couldn't blame him for being what he was.

The truth of the matter was that he really had no one to blame for this but himself. He should have found another way to get to Chiang. And he had known better than to trust Kwan. He had been the one to let his guard down. He stared at his crude weapon with distaste, but he knew that there was no hope for it. Too much was at stake. Good men would die if he broke and talked, and though Yi had his own very good reasons for keeping Webb's silence, Clay knew that he couldn't afford the chance that the General might renege. He knew that he should have done it sooner, out there along the river, before they'd had the chance to catch up to him. But he hadn't. He'd still been clinging to some foolish half-hope that he might find a way out of this, that he could still make it home.

_Home._ His fingers tightened involuntarily on the pen. He would be home soon enough, he supposed. –It just wasn't the home he'd been planning on. It might not even be the celestial one he was hoping for, he thought ruefully. The Church of England was less rigid than some of the other catholic faiths, but there was one tenet upon which he was pretty certain they still stood firm: the taking of one's own life was still a mortal sin.

He smiled wryly at the thought. Considering the life he had led, it was pretty late in the game to be worrying about this now. Aside from the major holidays and the few Sunday mornings when he had been home and his mother could cajole him into going with her, he had spent precious little time in the pew. But enough of his upbringing had stuck with him over the years for him to remember his Anglican faith, and he closed his eyes and concentrated, pulling the Act of Contrition from the dredges of his memory. He stumbled over a word or two as he recited the prayer softly to himself, but it made him feel a little better and he added an "Our Father," and a couple others he could think of for good measure. He felt the calm steal over him as he quietly uttered the familiar words, easing the tension from his body. 

When he could think of no more prayers, he straightened away from the wall and knelt with head bowed and eyes closed as he made his silent petition. He prayed for his family. It was going be hard for Sarah and Penny. They were never going to know what had happened to him. He thought of his mother. He'd never wanted to put her through this again, even though he'd always known they'd run that risk. He thought of Galindez and hoped that Victor wouldn't blame himself or get himself killed before they found all the leaks in the Seoul bureau. Mostly, he just hoped that Victor, unlike himself, could die in his own bed as an old man with a soul that was still intact. He asked nothing for himself save forgiveness, and even that he wasn't certain he deserved. He did ask for strength, but it wasn't really for himself. He knew that only his death and his silence would ensure the safety of good men like Hallowell and Carpenter. He opened his eyes and raised his head. There nothing more he could think of.

He glanced back to the sunlight. It was three inches from the mark. Just a little longer, he thought. He'd spent most of these last few hours mentally preparing for this moment, but now that it was nearly at hand, he found himself even more reluctant to meet it. He knew what it was. It was Sarah.

He didn't have many regrets for what he was about to do, but she was the only one that gave him pause. He wasn't going to be able to keep his promise to her. He wasn't going to come home this time. He wasn't even going to be able to say goodbye. If he could have asked the Almighty for anything, he would have asked for that: for the chance to see her just one more time. He would have touched her face, her hair, the long slender line of her neck. He would have held her tight to him, tight enough to feel the press of her bones against his. He would inhale her scent like a sweet anesthesia and listen to the sound of her breathing and the whisper of her voice. Most importantly, he would have told her how glad he had been to simply have her in his life.

And then –incredibly—he felt her. It was the same joy, the same gentle tug upon his heart that he felt whenever she was with him. It was almost as if she were here beside him, in this very prison, in this very cell. --Except, of course, that she wasn't. And yet he felt her. He fought the tightening in his throat and drew his knees up against his chest, hugging himself tightly and imagining it was her.

"I'm sorry, Sarah," he whispered. His voice sounded harsh and ragged to his own ears.

He imagined the touch of her hand, caressing his cheek and threading through his hair. She would wonder what happened to him. She would worry. She might even try to look. He smiled faintly at the thought. No doubt she'd give Harry Kershaw a migraine or two. His Marine didn't give up that easily. Not even when she knew she couldn't win.

"I love you," he whispered to the empty room. Even though she couldn't hear him, he needed to say the words.

_I love you, too,_ the object of his imagination whispered through his thoughts. _…I need you. Come home to us, Clay. Please …come home._

He inhaled sharply and clenched tightly to the pen. If only he could. 

Raising his head, he let his eyes travel to the scratch in the floor, fully bathed by the light of the early afternoon sun.

It was time.

He flashed upon the image of Mohammed Atef's body as he had last seen it. It was not a task for the faint of heart.  From somewhere outside his cell, he heard the clanging echo as the heavy outer door was opened. He froze, momentarily paralyzed by panic. What if they'd noticed? What if Yi had changed his mind? Drawing a sharp breath, he forced himself to remain calm. It might be nothing, he told himself. It might be just one of the guards bringing food. He heard the heavy echo of footsteps, slow and determined and drawing nearer. Either way, it really didn't matter. There was no more time. He had to do it now.

The footsteps came to a stop outside his cell door. Shit! Shit! Shit! There was no time! Praying that the guard would just slide the bowl through the door without looking, he fumbled with the pen, felt the pain and the hot trickle of dampness against his skin. In that moment the door swung open on its hinges and he closed his eyes, frozen in the act. There was a moment of silence so deep that he swore he could hear the pounding of his own heart echoing inside the tiny chamber. Then, incredibly, a familiar voice cut through the stillness of the room.

            "I don't think you really want to do that," Harmon Rabb said.

***


	18. Chapter 18

**Chapter 18**

_May 29, 2011___

_05:43_ ZULU__

_Taedong__River___

_Somewhere in __North Korea___

            The boat coasted slowly up to the abandoned jetty. The rotting planks were barely visible through the overgrown weeds and only the faintest depression in the tall grass suggested the presence of the footpath that led up the river bank to the warehouse. The low, sagging structure had reached almost the same level of deterioration as the jetty, leading Harm to suspect that it had been a long time since anyone had found a use for either structure. The building was a cobbled together affair, with a rusting tin roof and double doors framed out of wood and clad in the same, rusting corrugated steel. The doors hung half open, as if the last occupant of the building had not been able to summon the energy or the care to close them, leaving the entrance gaping open like the entrance to a dismal cave.

            The crew was tense and silent, as the Captain picked up a flashlight and switched it on. The beam was quickly fading in the gray light of the early dawn, but he directed it towards the warehouse and flashed it three times in rapid succession. After a moment's hesitation, an answering flash came from the depths of the building as the dual beams of a vehicle's headlights repeated the signal. An air of relief seemed to wash over the crew and the throaty roar of an engine echoed from the tin clad warehouse.

            The smugglers moved efficiently, casting out the lines and making the boat fast to the pilings as the large North Korean army truck lumbered out of the building and ground to a halt at the top of the hill near the foot path. A precarious looking plank was extended to the jetty and four of the smugglers, followed closely by Kim, Galindez and Rabb, made their way to dry land. 

Harm felt the slight shift of the plank beneath his feet, heard the soft rustle of movement behind him, and half-turned as he stepped to the ground, automatically offering his hand to the woman. He was barely surprised to see that she was following. Her presence had become almost ubiquitous throughout this entire deal they had struck with the smugglers. From the docks, to the restaurant, to the message that had been delivered to his hotel and finally to the helicopter and freighter that had connected them to this tiny river vessel, the woman had been with them every step of the way. Always silent, always subservient, she poured their tea, brought their food and guided them with unspoken directions from one point to another.

Frankly, he didn't know what to make of it. Perhaps it was all a part of the service the Dragon offered to his clients, but something about it just didn't fit. Like many ancient cultures, the Asians had a tendency to keep their women in the background, and crime lords were no exception. It struck him as odd to see one so closely accepted on the front lines of an operation. He had the distinct feeling that there was more to the woman than there appeared.

It was a suspicion that was verified the instant her small, booted feet touched the earth. She forged past him without so much as a glance of acknowledgement, and the four smugglers parted before her like waves breaking upon the shore. Picking her way up the footpath she approached the driver of the truck, a thin, nervous looking man wearing the uniform of a North Korean Army Sergeant. Her sharp tone carried all the way down the hillside as she issued an order to the man. He nodded quickly and opened up the back of the truck, dragging out a crate for her inspection. Reaching into the box, she pulled out an automatic rifle and a full clip of ammunition, ramming the clip home with expert efficiency.

Turning back to the rest of the crew, she barked another order in rapid Korean, tilting her head to indicate the truck. The four men responded immediately. Jogging up the hillside to the truck, they began to unload the crates as more of the smuggling crew debarked and began to carry them down the footpath to the boat.

Rabb shot a look at Galindez. "I don't know about you, but something tells me the lady does a lot more for these guys than pour tea."

Galindez continued to watch the woman, who was now overseeing the unloading of the crates. "You think?" he said dryly.

_11:28_ Zulu__

_Somewhere in __North Korea_…____

            Victor peered through the gap in the canvas tarp that covered the truck bed and watched the endless miles of mountainous terrain roll past. He supposed there were those who might find Korea beautiful, but he was coming to think of it as cursed. The small dingy hunts and thin, grimy faced children that paused to stare as they passed through the tiny villages were little different from those he'd seen in Iraq, Afghanistan, India, South America and the dozens of other places Uncle Sam had sent him. Maybe Rabb was right, he thought as he let the canvas fall back into place. Maybe he was becoming jaded.

            On the other hand, he couldn't escape the nagging suspicion that something was about to go to hell. What, exactly, he didn't know, but he could feel it: the same little buzzing feeling at the back of his neck. It was the same feeling he'd had as he'd watched Webb leave on the commercial flight to Beijing with Benny Kwan trailing in his wake. It might be the woman. Maybe it was just the kid. He supposed it could even be Rabb, but he couldn't escape the sensation that that there was more happening here than he was aware of. All the more reason for him to make the exchange, he thought. The hell with what Rabb said. There was no way he was going to trust Clay's extraction to anyone but himself.

            He was still forming the arguments in his head when the truck ground to a lumbering halt on a wooded section of road. The woman motioned for everyone to get out and Victor listened carefully as she began to give careful instructions, explaining their location and distance in relation to the prison. His gaze flickered over the boy, still rubbing the sleep from his eyes and settled upon Rabb.

            "She says the prison is only a couple of miles down the road. The exchange will happen there. If you follow the tree line, there's good cover, and you can get a decent view of the compound."

            Rabb raised an eyebrow. "Me? You're the one with the hike ahead of you."

            "Change of plans," Victor said, sounding eerily like Webb. "I don't like the way this feels. I'll make the exchange."

            Rabb scowled. "Look, we already discussed this. I told you, Gunny. I need to be the one to make the deal. –And I need you on that hillside."

            Galindez stared hard at him, not giving an inch and something flickered in the dark brown eyes. "Why?" he demanded.

            "I told you why," Rabb snorted. "You're the better shot."

            Galindez shook his head. "No," he said carefully, "--Why do you need to be the one to make this deal?"

            The question seemed to bring Rabb up short, and Galindez caught the momentary hesitation. The lack of sleep, the worry over Webb and the dangerous situation they had immersed themselves in had set his normally mild temper to hair trigger and for once, he let it take control. Reaching out with both hands, he grabbed fistfuls of Rabb's shirt and shoved him hard against the side of the truck.

            "What are you not telling me?" he hissed.

            Rabb was clearly taken aback at the move. Clearly he had assumed he was still dealing with the efficient and obedient Marine NCO that had snapped to his orders so quickly in the old days at JAG. He was not at all used to this incarnation of Victor Galindez, CIA operative. Here was a man as used to giving orders as taking them, a man who did not follow blindly –a man who trusted almost no one but himself, and who put his own intuition above all else. Victor bit back a grim smile as he saw this realization register in Rabb's eyes. He had Clayton Webb to thank –or blame—for that particular change in his demeanor.

            Rabb slowly raised his hands and detached Galindez's fingers from his shirt front. "Webb taught you well," He murmured, using the same smooth voice he'd reserved for soothing clients on the stand. "You really don't trust anyone, do you?"

            "I trust my instincts," Galindez said coolly, "and I trust Webb." 

            "But not me," Rabb stated flatly.

            Galindez shrugged. "It seems to me that a lot of water has passed under the bridge between you and Webb. Not all of it good."

            Rabb's jaw hardened and the blue eyes flashed with anger. "You think I'm trying to sabotage this? Sell Clay out? Come on, Victor, you can't be serious! You know I'd never do anything like that!"

Victor tilted his head and assessed Rabb with a hard gaze. "Frankly, Captain, it's been a long time since you and I have worked together. I really can't say with any certainty what you might do." The brown eyes narrowed. "Jealousy can do funny things to a man."

Rabb's hand shot out, shoving Victor backwards a step. "Just what in the hell are you trying to say?" he hissed, his eyes were blazing now with fury.

Victor paused, carefully weighing his words. He was now more certain than ever that there was more going on here than he was privy to, and every subtle indicator seemed to point to Rabb. There was something Rabb wasn't telling him. He was sure of it. He cursed silently to himself. Rabb, of all people, should know better. Secrets at this stage of the game were a dangerous thing, likely to get one –or all—of them killed. He couldn't have it. He had to push Rabb's buttons and get him mad enough to spill. Judging from the Captain's enraged glare, he was getting close, but Rabb seemed to have a remarkable control over his temper. He'd questioned Rabb's judgment, his trust and his loyalty to Webb, but he hadn't broken him yet. Unfortunately, Victor only knew of one button left to push. He didn't really want to do it. He liked Rabb, and it would be like pouring salt and vinegar in an open wound, but it was the only way he could think of to break through to the truth of the matter.

"What I'm saying," Victor said deliberately, "is that it's no secret the way you feel about the Colonel –and you've never forgiven Clay for beating you to the punch. You said as much yourself last night." Galindez cocked his head, gnawing slightly on his bottom lip. "It would be convenient for you if Webb doesn't walk away from this one. It would clear the playing field. –Give you a second chance."

For a moment, he thought Rabb was actually going to hit him. He expected it. He might even have welcomed it, considering what he had just said. The taller man's face went deathly white then instantly flushed scarlet, the veins in his forehead suddenly standing out with the force of his anger. Amazingly, though, he managed to control the urge, clenching his fists tightly, but keeping them at his sides.

"You're way the hell out of line, Galindez." He rasped. "I'll—

"Have me court-martialed?" Victor smiled grimly. "Sorry, that one doesn't wash any more. I'm out of your chain of command."

             The rage burnt brightly in the sapphire blue eyes, and there was an instant when Victor was not so sure Rabb might not still jump him. But Harm's fortitude was stronger than he expected, and the anger slowly faded to a look of desperation …and anguish.

            "Goddamn you," he whispered. "Just let me do this. I need to do it."

            "Why?" Victor demanded again. "You haven't seen or spoken to him in years. Why is this so important?"

            "Because I owe it to him," Rabb said. 

            "And you can pay it back from that hill side just as easily as you can in the middle of that compound –and with a hell of a lot less risk." Victor scowled as a thought occurred to him. "Or is that what this is all about? –The risk?"

            Rabb's eyes darted briefly away and Victor, whose years in law enforcement had made him a life-long student of human nature, followed Rabb's gaze to where the boy stood, wide eyed and clutching the brief case.

            "What's in the briefcase?" he demanded.

            "What they want," Rabb said simply. "Information."

            "What kind of information?" Victor pressed, still smelling a rat.

            "Disinformation," Rabb assured him. "—Nothing we would mind them getting their hands on, but it's better if I deliver it."

            "Better for who?" Galindez snapped.

            "For you and Webb," Rabb said quietly, and flashed a wry smile. "Look, what I'm giving them is phony intel, but my using it in this case isn't exactly…" he searched for a word, "…sanctioned," he said at last.

            "Admiral LaPorte denied your request?" Galindez asked.          

            Rabb shrugged. "I didn't ask."

            "Why the hell not?"

            Rabb scowled. "When I told him I wanted to take a little extra time to stay here and help you find Webb, he wasn't very receptive. Considering that Webb declassified the information that landed his daughter on death row, what do you _think_ he would have said?"

            "Jesus!" Victor breathed. "Do you have any idea what you're doing? They can court-martial you for this! You could be tried for treason!" 

            "Not treason," Rabb assured him. "Not unless the information I'm trading is real –which it isn't." He smiled grimly. "They probably will court-martial me though."

            He shook his head. "My luck, Bud will be assigned to prosecute and Tiner to defend." He looked thoughtful. "Of course I could just defend myself."

            Victor raked a hand through his hair, sick at heart and thoroughly exasperated. "You should have said something. We could have found another way."

            Harm shook his head. "No," he said firmly. "We couldn't. There wasn't enough time. You know that."

            "Yeah, but this—

            "Is what I owe Clay," Harm said quietly. "He took a hit for me once –for a lot less reason. The least I can do is return the favor."

            Galindez looked back at the briefcase. "You've already done that, haven't you? Look, there's no sense in trying to take all the heat. I'm as deep in this as you are." His eyes swiveled back to Rabb's. "It doesn't make any sense for you to go. You don't even speak the language."

            "I'll manage," Rabb said irritably.

            "How?"

            "Me," Kim said boldly, stepping forward. "I go with him. I talk for him."

            "No!" Rabb and Galindez's voices snapped in perfect unison.

            The boy pulled the briefcase tighter to his chest, determination burning brighter in his dark eyes. "You need me, Joe," he said stubbornly. "I go with you."

            "Kim, there no way—

            "Enough!" The woman's voice sliced through the damp mountain air, bringing their argument to an abrupt halt. All three whirled to stare at her, silenced not by her tone, but the language in which she had spoken.

            Cradling her weapon in the hollow of her arm, she stalked towards them. Her small delicate face was the picture of serenity and control, but each man could see the dark fire that burnt in the depths of her eyes. Halting directly before the three of them, she focused upon each one with surgical precision as she spoke.

            "We do not have time for this!" She spat, her softly accented English much clearer and somehow harsher than the boy's. 

She turned to Galindez. "You are the marksman. You will take the position on the ridge."

Her gaze cut to Rabb. "You have made the agreement to deliver the information. You will deliver it." Her eyes barely traced over Kim. "The boy stays here."

Galindez stared at her, a flush of anger rising in his cheeks. "You speak English?" he said softly, his voice taking on a dangerous edge. "All this time you spoke English and you're just letting us know about it now?"

The woman stared at him and he could not help but suppress a shiver. Her face was as still as the waters of a reflecting pool, without the faintest ripple of emotion. "You did not ask," she said simply.

Victor rounded angrily on Rabb. "This is exactly what I'm talking about!" He said angrily. We can't trust them! We can't trust anybody. This is all the more reason I should go –or at least go with you!"

Harm looked at the woman and the knot of men that had quietly gathered behind her, their weapons held easily in their hands. "I don't think we've got a whole lot of choice," he said quietly.

Victor uttered a sharp epithet and raked a hand through his hair. He looked at the smugglers and then back to Rabb, the grim look in his eyes his only concession to defeat.

"I don't like it," he said again, "—and I sure as hell don't trust her. Watch your six." 

Rabb nodded and offered his hand, along with a small grin. "That's what I'm counting on you for."

Victor accepted the handshake, but his tone was doubtful. "There's only so much I can do from a distance. Be careful, Captain."

Rabb grinned. "Good luck, Gunny."

"You too, sir." Galindez said, reverting for a moment to the Marine he had been.

Turning to Kim, Rabb pulled the briefcase from the boy's grasp and reached out to ruffle the silky black hair. "Look out for the Gunny, Kid. His Korean isn't so great, either."

The boy looked at him worriedly. "You come back," he said urgently. "You keep your deal."

Rabb smiled at the boy and nodded, but his eyes strayed meaningfully to Galindez. "Don't worry, kid. I always pay what I owe."

Following after the woman, Rabb tossed the briefcase in the back of the truck and climbed in after it.  The woman barked a sharp order to the driver and the engine coughed to life and started down the rutted track of the mountain road with a grinding of gears.

 Slinging his rifle, Galindez stood with the boy in the middle of the road and watched as the truck slowly disappeared from sight. When it was gone, he turned back to the men that remained with them and issued a clumsy order. Wordlessly, the men slung their weapons and filed into the heavy growth picking their way along the ridge in the direction the woman had indicated. As he picked his way along a narrow game trail, a smuggler ahead of him, and the boy close behind, he could still hear the faint sounds of the truck's engine fading in the distance and wondered why it was that Harmon Rabb's soft 'good luck' had sounded too much like goodbye.

***

            "He does not trust you."

            The woman's black eyes seemed to drill into his as they sat opposite each other, huddled behind the stack of crates and sacks of rice flour in the back of the truck. Rabb scowled at her and leaned back against the side of the truck, trying unsuccessfully to find a more comfortable position.

            "What makes you say that?" Rabb said sarcastically.

            "You did not tell him of your bargain."

            "He never would have agreed to it."

            "Understandable," she said, "considering the stakes."

He knew now that she was likely the only other person involved in this besides himself who knew the full details of the agreement he had made. She had been the one who had brought the video tape of Webb, bound and beaten but still alive, to his hotel room after the meeting at the restaurant. Along with the tape, she had also delivered the typewritten demand from the North Koreans and the strict list of stipulations for the trade as they had been set forth by her boss. And when he had finished watching the tape and reading the letter, she had carried his own answer back to the Dragon.

            She continued to study him, unable to completely contain her curiosity.

            "Do you trust him?" she asked.

            "With my life." Rabb said firmly.

            She tilted her head and smiled at him. It was an odd expression, filled with empathy and understanding that seemed somehow out of place with cold poise she presented to the world. 

"Yes," she said softly, "But can you trust him with your death?"

***

            Either the security was incredibly sloppy or they were expected, for the guards gave the truck little more than a cursory glance as they waved it through the outer gates. Once they were inside the main prison compound, Harm risked a glance through the gap in the canvas. He caught glimpses of several thin-faced prisoners laboring with hand tools in a spindly looking patch that must have been a vegetable garden. Beyond it, an open field, also under cultivation, stretched nearly to the sparse tree line before stopping abruptly at a high fence of razor wire. A tall wooden tower, staffed with two snipers ensured that no one would attempt to venture beyond this boundary. It wasn't the most secure prison he had seen, but in retrospect, he supposed it did not need to be. From what he had seen of this country, whatever deterrence the snipers and barbed wire did not provide, the harsh landscape would. 

He snuck another glance at the tree line. Galindez was out there somewhere. He could feel it. He only hoped that he was going to be able to get close enough. It was nine hundred yards from the edge of the tree line to the edge of the compound, and probably another hundred and fifty to the complex of austere buildings that dominated the center of the prison yard. With a good rifle and the right wind, a military sniper could easily manage that distance, and Galindez was all of that. But as he let the canvas fall back into place, Harm admitted to himself that it wasn't really Galindez's skill that he was worried about.

The truck ground to a halt and the engine died. This was it: the moment of truth. The tail gate was quickly lowered and the crates and rice sacks yanked aside to reveal two slim and lethal looking North Korean Army soldiers. They stepped back carefully, their weapons at the ready and took positions on either side of the truck. The woman rose, just as carefully, and slung her rifle over her shoulder. She jumped down from the truck, her slight frame landing with a barely audible sound and turned to look expectantly at Rabb. He followed, landing somewhat harder with the briefcase clutched tightly in his hand.

He spared a quick glance at their surroundings and mentally swore. The truck had been backed up close to the open doorway of a long, low building, effectively screening them from view. So much for plan A, he thought wryly.

The woman took a step towards the doorway and made a slight bow before speaking in rapid Korean. It was only then that he noticed the man standing in the shadows, the man with whom the bargain had been struck. Watching the woman as she finished her short speech, he could not help but be impressed. Whoever her mysterious employer was, he had built an effective network of skilled employees and valuable contacts. It wasn't just any crime lord who could feel confident enough in his people and his power to talk his way into a North Korean prison and back out again. Harm's eyes flicked to the man in the shadows. –And it whoever this agreement had been made with had a hell of a lot of nerve as well. He'd bet his Stearman that this guy was more than just some greedy prison guard looking to make a buck. Judging by the way the two guards had jumped to attention; it had to be an officer. Maybe even the camp commandant. As if in answer to his question, the man stepped out from the shadowed interior, revealing himself and Rabb started as the man's features became visible. 

The man bowed slightly and offered a small smile that did not reach his eyes. "Welcome to Taedong prison, Captain Rabb."

***

            Victor pressed his back tightly into the crotch of the tree he had climbed and brought the rifle to his shoulder, sighting it in. 

            "What you see?" the boy's voice, hushed and tense floated up from the ground.

            He focused in on the army truck, now lumbering to a stop in the center of the complex. "They're in," he reported, his voice equally soft. The boy turned to the smuggler that had accompanied them and relayed the message in a soft bubble of Korean. Of the men that had accompanied them, two had remained back at the road to keep watch, one was staked out not far down the trail and the last remained with the boy at the base of the tree Victor had selected. 

            Lowering the rifle, he took a moment to judge the distance from here to the army truck. It was better than a thousand yards. He considered this, and adjusted the scope. The rifle was good for a thousand, but anything more than that and it started to get iffy. He couldn't afford uncertainty. He had to be sure. Bringing the rifle back to his shoulder, he focused again on the truck and swore as he watched the driver back it up close to the side of a building, effectively screening the occupants from his view. The distance was bad enough, but from this location there was no way in hell he was going to be able to get a clear shot. He quickly swept his scope over the rest of the complex. Not much cover that he could see, except for here, and the perimeter of the camp was carefully watched by each of the four guard towers. Focusing back on the truck, he acknowledged the tightening in his gut with silent resignation. There was nothing he could do. Rabb was on his own.

***

The sound of his own footsteps echoed loudly in his ears as he strode down the length of the empty cell block. The woman's step he heard not at all, though she followed close behind. In his years with the JAG corps he had visited many prisons, both stateside and abroad. He was used to a cacophony of shouting voices, moans, pleas and profanities, but this one possessed an eerie silence that made his skin crawl. As they passed cell after empty cell, he understood the unearthly stillness. The man he was dealing with wanted no witnesses –no matter how trivial—present for this exchange.

            Harm slowed as they reached the heavy wooden door of the last cell and cast a glance to the woman. She nodded and he put the key into the aged lock. It turned reluctantly under his hand, but the tumblers gave way and the door inched towards him on creaking hinges. He found himself hesitating upon the threshold; uncertain of what he might find when he swung the door wide. Had Yi been true to his word? Or would this cell be as empty as the others they had passed? If it was not, would the man they found inside really be Webb? If it was, would he be badly hurt? Would he even be alive? These and a hundred other doubts assailed him as he put his hand upon the door, but none of them prepared him for the sight that met his eyes as he entered the cell.

            A single beam of sunlight filtered through the iron grate set high in the wall, illuminating the stark gray room with the metal table, the two chairs, and the thin and filthy mattress shoved against the wall. But Harm gave these items little more than a passing glance. His single focus was fixed upon the man who knelt in the pool of sunlight. The faint golden rays cast faint highlights in the dark brown hair and outlined the tense, well-muscled body drawn as tight as a bowstring. The silence of the moment deepened as Harm took it all in: the trembling fingers, the broken piece of a pen barrel, and the thin stream of crimson that reddened the cuff of the blue button down shirt.

            Harm moved slowly, not wanting to spook the man, and set the brief case down upon the table. He never took his eyes off Webb, and an eternity seemed to pass in that moment, but neither man spoke. Webb swallowed hard, his eyes still tightly closed, and a bead of perspiration dripped down the side of his finely chiseled nose. He seemed to gather himself in that moment, and a stab of frantic realization forced the words from Harm's throat in a quiet rush.

            "I don't think you really want to do that."

            Hazel eyes flew open, widened in disbelief, then narrowed as surprise and suspicion took hold.

            "H-Harm?" Webb's voice, rusty from disuse, sounded thin and tentative in the hollow atmosphere of the room.

            "Yeah," Harm said quietly and took a careful step forward. Webb tensed like a feral animal, clutching the pen and his wounded wrist more tightly to his body.

            "What are you doing here?"

            Rabb allowed himself a moment to consider the man in front of him before answering. Webb was clearly on the razor's edge, his eyes half wild, his voice and body trembling. Clay had clearly meant to take his own life, and Harm had little doubt he'd have done it if left to his own devices a moment longer. He wondered what in the hell they had done to him. Drugs? Sleep deprivation? Some sort of sophisticated brainwashing technique? Whatever it was, he had to talk Webb down, and fast. The clock was ticking.

            "Getting you out," he said calmly, taking a step and then another until he was standing over the spy. "What are you doing?" he asked, the inflection in his voice subtly turning the question back.

            The green eyes that locked on his were dark, desperate and chillingly sane. "Getting out," Clay replied.

            Harm slowly lowered himself until he was crouched before Webb, his blue eyes level with murky green ones. Reaching out, he took hold of the shaking wrist and turned it to inspect the slow trickle of blood from the wound.

            "I can think of better ways."

            "Until a minute ago, my options were somewhat limited," Clay snapped, dropping the pen and closing his hand over the wound. A fine stream of blood seeped through his fingers. "The Chinese will be here soon. I couldn't afford for them to take me. Their interrogation methods are better than the North Koreans. –As sophisticated as ours. I couldn't risk it."

            Tearing a strip of cloth from the tail of his own shirt, Harm reached for Clay's wrist, pulled his hand away and began to bind the wound. Webb peppered him with a barrage of questions.

            "What's the plan? Is Galindez here? Who did you bring with you? --A CIA extraction team or Special Forces?"

            Webb hissed sharply as Harm yanked the dressing tight, staunching the flow of both words and blood. But he quickly started in again, his mind racing at top speed.

            "It doesn't matter," he decided, launching himself to his feet. "We've got to get moving. It's almost time for the afternoon meal. The guards will be coming soon."

            "Clay—

            Webb ignored him, stifling a small gasp of pain as he put his full weight on the injured leg and limped towards the door. He risked a small glance through the crack and into the corridor. 

            "How many guards did you see?" He said softly, trying to peer further down the length of the corridor.

            "Clay…" Harm said again, but Webb flashed him an irritated look. 

"No time for small talk, Rabb. You can tell me on the way."

"Clay, I'm not going."

"What?" Webb's blank expression would have been almost comical in any other setting, Harm thought, but it was difficult to find the humor in it now.

"I'm not going," Harm repeated.

"What do you mean you're not going?" Webb demanded, his voice coloring with anger.

"It's part of the deal," Harm explained.

"What deal?" Clay snapped.

"The deal to get you out."

Webb's eyes took on a dangerous light. "Maybe you'd better tell me just what in the hell is going on, Rabb."

Harm drew a deep breath. "There is no team, CIA or otherwise. Just Gunny and me and a half-dozen smugglers with mercenary tendencies. Victor couldn't get Kershaw to go for an extraction."

"Of course not," Clay murmured. "So you and Galindez went off the reservation and arranged this by yourselves?"

"More or less," Harm replied.

"I don't believe it," Webb said flatly, raking a hand through his hair. "This is crazy. –There's more to it, right? This is all a scam. You're sending me out on an exchange and then breaking out on your own. Right?"

"Something like that," Harm said.

"And Galindez went along with it?" Webb was incredulous.

"He wasn't crazy about it," Harm allowed. That much at least, was true. Unfortunately, he'd never been particularly good at subterfuge and he was being scrutinized by a man who was its master. The olive green eyes narrowed upon him.

"Victor doesn't know," Webb guessed. "What the hell are you playing at, Rabb? Do you even have a plan for how you're going to get yourself out of this?"

"Yes," Harm said simply, crossing to the table and unlocking the briefcase.

"What?" Webb demanded.

"Need to know," Harm said with grim satisfaction and more than a touch of irony.

"Damn it! I need to know!" Webb insisted.

"No," Harm said gently, his blue eyes locking steadily upon Clay's. "You don't."

"And what if this plan of yours doesn't work?" Clay persisted. "Have you thought about that?"

"I'll cross that bridge when I come to it," Harm said.

"Not good enough." Clay snapped.

Harm didn't answer for a long moment. "If it comes to that," he said quietly, "Gunny knows what to do."

"Goddamn you Harm," Clay whispered, and sagged against the wall. He absorbed the words like a physical blow, for it was in that instant that he intuitively understood what it was that Harm was not saying. There was no escape plan. Rabb had never made one. There were only two things that Harm was counting on to get him out of this, and that was Victor Galindez and a well placed bullet.

            Clay felt the nausea rise in the pit of his stomach. '_No,'_ he thought. '_–Not like this.' _ He'd always known Rabb had a hero complex. The man would never be satisfied with going out in anything less than a blaze of glory, but damn it, he didn't want to be the reason for it.  …Not like this. …Not for him. There was already too much blood on his hands without adding to it the life of a friend.

            He had to talk him out if it, Clay thought desperately. He had to make him angry …make him leave. Hell, it shouldn't be that hard. _He_ was already angry! Who in the hell did Rabb think he was, anyway? He'd spent most of the long, sleepless night wrestling his demons and counting his regrets. He'd accepted his fate. What in the hell did Rabb think he was doing? –Showing him salvation at such a terrible price?

            He watched as Harm calmly began unbuttoning his shirt, removing it and laying carefully on the table.

            "I'm not going to let you do this, Harm." Clay said firmly. "I don't want you playing the martyr for me."

            "I'm not doing it for you," Rabb said evenly, stripping down to his boxers. He opened the briefcase and removed a grimy pair of khaki trousers and a sweat-stained blue oxford shirt of the same approximate style as Webb's. Clay noted that someone with an eye for detail had even doused the left pant leg with blood.

            "No," Webb laughed bitterly. "Of course you're not." 

            He shook his head. "Jesus, I should have realized. –You're doing it for her, aren't you? After all these years, you're still trying to be her hero."

            "This isn't about Mac," Harm said, pulling on the clothes. He reached into the brief case and pulled out a small square of leather, tossing it to Clay who caught it instinctively. Webb stared at it blankly. –His wallet. The guards had taken it from him when he'd been captured.

He opened it slowly, as if in a daze. It was empty, save for the driver's license and insurance card in the name of Anders Vandergraaf, his cover identity. Glancing down, he noted that the driver's license now sported Harm's picture instead of his own. He flipped to the other side of the wallet. The money and the credit cards were gone –no surprise—but the picture was still there. It was a small, artfully posed studio portrait of Sarah and Penny on an ornately carved carousel horse. His throat tightened. Of all the things they'd taken from him here in the camp, this was the only thing he'd missed.

He'd spent most of the long, sleepless night alone in the darkness, trying to recall each beloved detail of their faces. –Trying to remember the rich, warm sound of her voice as it blended with Penny's childish laughter. --Trying to imagine the caress of her fingers over his skin.

Rabb reached out and took the wallet from him. Clay stared at it dumbly, knowing even then, that he had already lost.

"The other day you told me that you weren't going to make the same mistake your father did."

Harm paused and looked down at the picture. He ran his thumb across Penny's cherubic, smiling face. "I'm not doing this for you or for Mac. I'm doing this for her."

He looked up suddenly, and Clay found himself seared by the fire of the brilliant blue gaze.

"I don't want that little girl to grow up making the same mistake you and I did," Rabb said. "I don't want her to spend the rest of her life looking for a man who never came home."

Webb stared at him silently. There was no argument for that. He watched as Harm folded the wallet and stuck it in his pocket, picture and all. He didn't resist as Rabb stripped him of his field vest and put it on. The vest was a little short at the waist, but it wasn't likely to be noticed.

"I'm not leaving you here, Harm," Webb protested. His eyes were wild, his voice desperate. "There has to be another way. We'll think of something. I'll get you out."

Harm shook his head. "Don't waste your time. You're in no shape, and we both know that Galindez and a handful of hired guns is no match for the North Korean Army."

Webb shook his head stubbornly. "I won't do it. I won't leave you here to die in my place."  
            Harm merely smiled and adjusted the vest. "You really want to do something for me?" He tilted his head towards the barred window. "There's a kid out there with Gunny –answers to the name of Kim. He's a pretty good kid, aside from the fact that he's caught all the rotten breaks in life. Look after him, will you? Get him off the streets. Better yet, get him out of Korea. Send him somewhere where he can get three squares a day and enough of an education to make a life for himself." Rabb shrugged. "I'd do it myself, but…"

"Damn it, Harm!" Webb ground out. His voice was cracking with fury and frustration and soul eating despair. "Don't do this! Don't ask me to live with this! ---I can't—

Rabb gripped his shoulders and yanked him close, then slid one hand to the side of his neck, forcing Webb to meet his eyes. "You can," Harm said, his words were hot and harsh against Webb's cheek. 

 "No— Clay protested, and Harm squeezed gently, stopping the words in his throat.

            "Yes," Harm insisted, and Clay couldn't avoid the desperate intensity of the crystalline blue eyes. "You have to do this. You have to walk out that door and live with this, --because I can't do it. I can't walk out of here knowing that I'm leaving a good man behind to die."

            "But I can?" Webb's voice was angry, but Harm also heard the pain in it. He nodded slowly.

            "Yes," he said simply. "You can. --That's the difference between you and me, Clay. You _can live with it. –I never could …and I've come too far to go back now."_

Harm smiled wryly, "Come on Webb, it's not that bad. We both know I've got the easy road out of here."

            Webb was struggling for breath now. A fierce pain was constricting at his throat and his eyes were burning furiously as he rapidly blinked in an effort to see. Harm yanked him into a rough, brotherly embrace then pushed him back a step. Blue eyes locked with green and hung suspended upon a sea of anguish.

            "Go home, Clay," Harm said hoarsely. "Go home and watch your kid grow up."

            Stepping back with a shaky breath, Webb managed one sharp nod.

            …And went.

AN: Last warning to any interested readers! Due to ensuing violence, the story is going up to an "R" rating from here on out…


	19. Chapter 19

**Chapter 19**

            A slim Korean woman was waiting outside the door of the cell. Her face registered neither fear nor surprise as she spotted him, and Webb knew that she must somehow be part of the plan.  She was dressed plainly, in a loose fitting brown shirt and pants of the type that so many of the local farmers wore. Her silky black hair was cropped to chin length and her face was partially obscured by a broad brimmed hat woven of plaited reeds. She did not speak, but turned swiftly and moved down the gloomy corridor. After a moment's hesitation, he followed and then froze as they came to the doorway that led to the open yard of the prison camp. A large, heavy wheeled supply truck was backed up to the door. In front of it, blocking their path were two guards with guns leveled upon them. Behind the guards stood the small, precise figure of General Yi Song-gye.

            Webb glared from the woman to Yi. "What the hell is this?" he demanded.

            Yi smiled. "Merely a business transaction, Mr. Webb." 

"You might have mentioned that somewhere in your little speech about warriors and honor and the glory of ritual suicide," Webb said irritably.

Yi smiled benignly, but the coldness in his obsidian eyes remained. "Yesterday, we did not have an agreement. And the agreement I made with Captain Rabb was merely for your return, unharmed by us. It made no provisions for any damage you might do to yourself."

_'You clever old son of a bitch,'_ Clay thought, returning the General's stony gaze. Yi had taken a losing situation and with a bit of careful suggestion and a coincidental opportunity he had turned it entirely to his advantage. A minute's difference either way and Yi would have had both his salvation and his revenge as well –and probably a sizeable ransom to boot.

Yi's gaze flickered to the woman and she bowed slightly, pulling a cell phone from the folds of her shirt. She pressed a button, waited a moment and spoke into the phone. Though he'd taken one of the Agency's crash courses in Korean before coming here, the dialect was unfamiliar and he could not make out the words. After a brief exchange, she handed the phone to Yi.

            The General spoke briefly, and from the tone of command in his voice, Webb gathered that the phone on the other end of this conversation had changed hands as well. Yi nodded his satisfaction and snapped the phone shut.

            "Your ransom has been paid, Mr. Webb. You are free to go."

            The woman made a step towards the truck, but Yi held up his hand. "However, I do have just one small personal request."

            "It seems to me that you've gotten more than enough out of this deal," Webb said angrily.

            "And it seems to me that you are in no position to refuse my request," Yi said gently. He cast a meaningful look at the two guards. "It is a simple thing, really, more a personal matter than a professional one."

            Yi turned and spoke sharply, dismissing the two guards. They nodded and moved off, taking up new positions a short distance away. Yi looked expectantly at the woman. She also stepped back, albeit reluctantly.

            "My son has committed the greatest crime a man can commit in our society," Yi said quietly. "He has betrayed his people and dishonored his father." The General's cold black eyes fixed steadily upon Webb. "I hold you personally responsible for that."

            Webb nodded, accepting the truth of the matter.

            "By the rules of our people and our government, Chiang's crimes are punishable by death –and rightly so." Yi hesitated. "But he is still my son."

            "What do you want, Yi?" Clay asked tiredly.

            Yi shrugged. "I want you to extract Chiang. See him safely out of the country. He was not as careful as he might have been. Already there are questions being asked. I will do what I can but…" he shrugged meaningfully.

            Clay studied the dry, dusty ground at his feet. There were only a few reasons one entered into this particular line of work: greed, a thirst for adrenaline, or a sense of patriotism and a deep and driving belief in the cause of freedom. His own particular purpose was the latter one. He did this job because he loved his country. But patriotism, he reminded himself, was a double edged sword. In order to defend his country, he must spend his life encouraging others to betray theirs.

            He raised his eyes and forced himself to meet Yi's gaze. In spite of the fact that old bastard had intended to have him killed and was now holding Rabb in his place, there was something in the man that he had to respect. Yi was also a patriot, a man serving his country in the best way he knew how. But he was also a father, clearly caught between his duty to his country and his love for his son. He was seeking the best compromise he could make. Webb returned Yi's steady gaze.

            "I'll see what I can do," he said at last, and meant it.

            Yi nodded and stepped aside, motioning for Webb and the woman to climb in the truck. The woman scrambled in quickly and offered a hand to Webb, who found himself far less agile with the pain of his injuries. She pulled him in with surprising strength and they huddled down among the packing boxes. The guards locked the tail gate and the truck started with a heavy roar and moved out on gnashing gears. 

            From his position behind a crate, Webb watched as the small low lock house that had been his prison grew smaller in the distance. General Yi's imperious figure stood stiffly in the doorway, but it was the row of grated windows he fixed upon. A face appeared in one of them, tall and pale and he kept his eyes locked upon Rabb's until the truck rolled through the check point and the heavy wooden gates closed behind them. He sank down to the floor and tried not to think of Rabb's face, shadowed by the bars of the window grate. He didn't want to think of those piercing blue eyes, steadily following the progress of the truck as it rolled out of the prison. That would be his last memory of Harm, he realized. Likely, it would be the one image that would haunt him for the rest of his days.

            As it turned out, he was wrong on both accounts.

***

            They were less than two miles from the prison when the woman rose suddenly and climbed over the crates and boxes to the back of the truck. Motioning for him to follow, she hoisted her self over the tail gate. She held herself suspended for a moment and then dropped to the ground, rolling into the dense growth of underbrush that bordered each side of the road. Gingerly, Clay followed suit. Curling himself into a ball, he dropped and rolled to the ground. His body screamed in protest at the impact, but he couldn't allow himself to think about it. He came to a stop in a thicket of lush, heavy ferns and lay there, willing the pain to subside as the roar of the truck's engine faded into the distance.

            After a few minutes the ferns parted and he found himself staring up into the delicate pixie face of the woman. She studied him carefully, her large dark, almond colored eyes sweeping over him as she assessed his injuries. Dropping to her knees, she took a moment to loosen the makeshift bandage that bound his leg. It was bleeding again. She surveyed the wound with a critical eye. Taking a knife from her belt, she quickly cut several of the ferns, then folded and crushed them into a compress. She bound them into place with the wrappings of the old bandage, knotting it tightly. Rising to her feet, she offered her hand and pulled Webb to his.

            It was an effort now for him to walk, and he had to lean upon her from time to time to make it through the more rigorous parts of the trail. He really didn't know how long or how far they had traveled. He was too focused on keeping up with her driven pace to pay much attention. He was nearly at the end of his endurance when she stopped suddenly in the middle of a small timbered clearing beside the river and whistled a soft, bird-like note.

            It was answered almost immediately, and two men suddenly appeared. They were dressed much like the woman, but each had an automatic rifle slung across their backs. A third man appeared, carrying an extra rifle which he handed to the woman. He was taller than the others, though nearly as dark and Clay smiled grimly. Even in the clothing of a Korean peasant, Galindez stuck out almost as badly as he did. They really needed to keep him to the South American and Middle East assignments.

            "Am I glad to see you," Galindez said, taking Webb by the shoulders and looking him up and down. "I thought you were a goner, boss."

            "So did I," Webb replied, slightly breathless. He teetered slightly and felt his knees begin to buckle, but Galindez's grip tightened upon his shoulders, steadying him. The taller man wasted no time in pulling him over to a fallen log and helping him to sit. Over his shoulder, Galindez spoke rapidly in Korean and a boy appeared from the brush, carrying a canteen and a small pack. Galindez handed the canteen to Webb, who drank deeply.

            "I owe you one, Gunny," he gasped, fumbling to replace the cap.

            Galindez shook his head. "I figure after Paraguay, this just about makes us even." He took the canteen back and deftly tightened the cap. "You probably are in to the Captain for a mighty big one though."

            _'No kidding,' Clay nodded and swallowed hard, suddenly aware of the stone that had settled somewhere in the pit of his stomach as he thought of Rabb, back in that prison camp. He looked carefully at the men around them, wondering how many more there were and how well armed. If he could convince them to move quickly, there might still be a chance. Surely Galindez would have something in mind._

            Galindez, however, was looking from him to the woman and then further down the trail behind them, a question growing upon his face.

            "Where is Rabb, anyway?" 

***

_Ten years later…_

            The steady stream of water sluiced over the hood, washing away the last of the dirt and geranium petals. Sturgis carefully trained spray upon the mess, allowing the force of the water to carry it down the driveway and into the grass. Closing the valve, he cast the garden hose aside and turned to face Galindez. Victor sat perched upon a stool beside the workbench, toying with the bottle of beer gone warm in his hands.

            "It wasn't until that moment that I understood what he had done," Victor murmured.

            Sturgis ran a hand over the hood of the car, pushing away the water that beaded up on the highly waxed surface. A long scratch marred the glossy red finish of the hood and he traced it with his finger. Webb was definitely going to be dropping some serious money at the body shop for this one.

            "I'm not sure I understand it myself," Turner said heavily. "What went wrong?"

            "Nothing," Galindez replied and climbed off the stool to pull another beer from the mini fridge beneath the workbench. He tossed it to Turner. "It went exactly the way he planned it."

            Twisting the cap off the beer with a flick of his wrist, Sturgis tossed it into the garbage, then crossed to the other side of the garage and punched a button above the workbench, closing the garage door down upon them and Webb's convertible.

            "There never were any files or false intel. The only thing Rabb intended to trade to the North Koreans was himself." Victor explained.

            Sturgis frowned, clearly confused. "Why?"

            "Because it was their price."

            "That's one hell of a price," Sturgis observed, "--and a damned unusual one. They had one of the Company's top spies in their hand. Why would they be willing to trade him at all?"

            Victor shifted uneasily. "I can't really say."

            Sturgis's direct gaze pierced his. "As in you don't know? –Or you can't say?"

            "I can't say," Victor repeated. "But one might surmise that the North Koreans might have been afraid of some things the Chinese could have learned from interrogating Clay. –Some things that the North Koreans might not have wished the Chinese to know."

            "I see," Sturgis said carefully, even though he didn't. –Not entirely, anyhow.

            From somewhere above, they could hear the faint shifting of the floorboards above their heads and the rise and fall of feminine voices as the women moved back and forth across the kitchen. As of yet, no one had missed them, or noted Sarah and Clay's conspicuous absence, but they would soon enough. Sturgis leaned one hip against the car and considered Galindez. The man was staring back at him, his expression more than a little uncomfortable, and Sturgis knew that his own face reflected that same disquiet. He had opened the door into this conversation, knowing full well the gravity of it, and yet he still had not been prepared for the things Galindez had told him. 

He felt somewhat at war with himself as he struggled to maintain his impassive demeanor. On the one hand, he shared the feeling of anger and betrayal that Mac must have felt upon discovering the part her husband had played in covering up Harm's death. On the other, he could also see why Webb and Galindez had been so eager to bury it. They had been caught in a no-win situation and Harm had given them a solution. One they had taken, not realizing the sacrifice that was attached until it was too late.

            Sturgis's eyes wandered to the far end of the garage where the sleek lines of the classic Corvette were veiled beneath a heavy drop cloth, and felt the weight of the other man's eyes upon him. He wasn't entirely certain what it was Galindez wanted him to say. If it was absolution he sought, Sturgis couldn't give it. Only God and Harmon Rabb Jr. could do that. Still, he sensed that Galindez needed to tell him, and perhaps after all these years, he still needed to know.

            "Did you do it?" he asked, finally uttering the words that lay heavily between them.

            "No," Galindez said. "But there are nights when I wish I had."

            Victor saw the shock that flickered in Turner's eyes and smiled ruefully. "You have to understand," he murmured. "It was the last thing he asked of me, and in the end, I couldn't do it."

            Turner wanted to ask who did do it, but he had been a minister's son for too many years to completely ignore the torment he heard in Galindez's words.

            "If you had, could you really have lived with that?"

            Victor shied away from the question. "It would have been better," he insisted.

            "Better for who? You?" Sturgis demanded. "Or better for Harm?"

            "Better for Clay." Victor said softly.

            Sturgis set the beer bottle down as carefully as if it were filled with nitroglycerine rather than Corona.

            "I think you'd better tell me the rest of it," he said.

***

            _Ten years earlier_

_            Somewhere in __North Korea__…_

            It was the first time he had ever seen Clayton Webb at a complete and total loss for what to do. Frankly, that worried him more than a little, for Victor realized he'd come to count on Webb's quiet, steadfast leadership in the most dire of situations. But Webb, for once, seemed incapable. He sat upon the log, his face buried in his hands. His silence and stillness seemed to oppress even the small, quiet sounds of the birds and the insects. And yet, everyone watched him expectantly, as if sensing the next move was in his hands.

            "What do we do?" Victor asked, sensing the impatience of the woman and her cohorts.

            Webb straightened and scrubbed his palms across his face as if to shove back the exhaustion that had etched itself into the lines around his eyes and mouth. After a moment, he forced himself to look up to the circle of expectant faces. 

            "We go back."

***

            Rabb listened to the sound of the General's footsteps as they echoed down the empty corridor and faded into silence. Satisfied that he was once more alone with his thoughts, he shoved the chair away from the table and tipped it backwards towards the wall, unmindful of the precarious angle at which he now balanced. The worst he could do was break his neck, and that might be actually be fortuitous, considering the situation. In less than an hour he would be handed over to the Chinese and whisked away to Beijing for what promised to be an intensive interrogation.

            Ironically enough, his brief interview with the North Korean spymaster had been polite –almost congenial—and he could not help but wonder at the man's motives for engaging in such a bargain. Certainly the money was a factor. Although the mysterious Black Dragon was undoubtedly keeping the Lion's share of the million dollars he and Galindez had put up, he knew that a sizeable portion of it had been paid to the General as incentive to negotiate. But it was the fact that the man was willing to bargain at all that made Harm wonder. In retrospect, the General had seemed unusually willing to make a deal –and perhaps a little relieved. It was enough to make him wonder if Webb had something on the man. Probably, he decided. Webb had something on almost everybody.

            From somewhere outside in the prison compound he heard the long, low tolling of a bell. He counted each strike. Sixteen hundred hours. The Chinese would be here in half an hour, or so Yi had claimed. It really wasn't all that long and yet it seemed an eternity. Rabb wondered if Galindez had found a good spot. He hoped so. He was only going to get one shot at this. The random thought, fatalistic though it was, made him tense and he rocked forward, bringing the front legs of the chair slamming down to the worn concrete floor. Springing to his feet, he paced restlessly to the door then back to the window, as the confinement of the small room began to press in upon him. Reaching up with both hands, he took hold of the bars that covered the window and clenched them tightly as the urge to do something –anything—quickly overwhelmed him. The bars of the window held fast.

            He gazed out the window for a long moment, watching the long double row of a prison work detail as it was marched past his window. They were thin, ragged scarecrows of men, with no spark of life or awareness apparent on their faces or in their eyes. He watched until the last man passed, and then dropped his head, pressing it into the rough, cool surface of the wall. He supposed he could be worse off. He could be one of them. They would spend years here, suffering back-breaking labor, starvation and abuse until they prayed for death to take them. He, on the other hand, would be out in thirty minutes. –If Galindez could keep his promise.

            Harm closed his eyes and listened to the sound of the prisoners marching away. Then slowly let go of the bars. His palms were cool and sweaty and he wiped them against his trousers, feeling more than a little irritated with himself. It was a hell of a time to lose his nerve. The least he could do was go out with at least a little dignity. That, he supposed, was the whole trouble. It wasn't dying that was the problem, it was the waiting. He had spent most of his adult life dancing from one dangerous situation to another. By all rights, he really should have been dead long ago. He'd dodged bombs and bullets and landmines. He'd been stalked by terrorists, deranged backwoods rednecks and that premiere of psychopaths, Clark Palmer. He'd crashed so many planes that even he was surprised he still had his license. –Although granted, there had been extenuating circumstances. And yet, for all the close calls he'd had, he'd never really been afraid. He supposed it was because he'd always been so busy fighting to stay alive that he'd never really had time to think about it.

            But now, there was nothing to do but wait …and think. This was it, he realized. This was the moment he had been avoiding since he had sent the woman from his hotel room with his answer to the Dragon and the North Koreans. Perhaps, it was the moment he had been avoiding his entire life. This was his final hour, the hour of reflection, the hour in which he must finally face himself.

            Why had he done this? He had told Galindez it was because he owed it to Clay, and though it was true, it was not the reason. Clay had accused him of doing it for Mac. It was a logical conclusion, given their history, and he couldn't deny that it had probably lent some weight to his decision, but not in the way that Webb believed. He'd loved Mac. He would love her until he died –sometime in the next half hour or so—but she had not been the true catalyst for this devil's bargain he had struck. It had been the picture that had done it. 

Reaching into the breast pocket of the field vest he took out the other picture he'd removed from Webb's wallet, the one he'd noticed in the restaurant, the small family portrait of Clay and Sarah and Penny. The three of them were smiling as if the photographer had just told them a funny joke. The corner of Webb's mouth was turned up in his trademark smirk and his eyes crinkled ever so slightly. Mac's smile was so brilliant and her dark eyes so sparkling that for a moment he could almost imagine the sound of her laughter, but it was the child that stopped him cold. She was perched between her parents, their arms wrapped securely around her and each other and her face bore the innocent expression of pure childish joy. He knew that picture well. He had one very much like it in his apartment in Honolulu. It had been taken six months before his father had left for Vietnam. It had been the last time he had been truly happy.

Dropping back into the chair, Harm set the picture down upon the table and contemplated it. He had told Clay he was doing this for the child, and he hadn't lied. Staring down into her youthful, innocent face had been like looking into a crystal ball. He had seen her future. He had lived it. She would be too much like her mother to be satisfied with vague explanations, and she would be too much like her father not to figure out a way to learn what she would so desperately want to know. She would grow up asking questions, and the more the answers were denied her, the more obsessed she would become with finding them. She would spend her life chasing a ghost, and even if she did find the truth, she would not be satisfied. Only in the end would she realize the futility of her endeavor. Too late she would realize that it had never been the truth about the man that she had wanted; it had been the man himself.

Everything he'd said to Clay had been the truth. He was doing this for Penny, and he wasn't afraid of what was to come. But here, in this final hour when he could not escape himself, he understood the truth about who he really was and what had brought him here:

He was not afraid to die. He was afraid to live. 

It seemed ridiculous considering the places he had been and the things he had done. He'd been a fighter pilot, a successful trial lawyer, and even worked for the CIA. Most would have considered any one of these things a zenith of life experience, and he had done them all, but it wasn't really living. It was only now that he realized living had more to do with the little things than the big ones. It was the decisions you made and lived with for a lifetime. It was the people you loved and let into your life. It was the legacy you left behind you when you went. He had done all of the big things in life. It was the little ones –the important ones—that he had missed out on.

Somewhere over the Pacific Ocean, a large manila envelope was winging its way to Washington D.C. and the desk of Sturgis Turner. It contained the Last Will and Testament of one Harmon Rabb Jr., a disappointingly thin document, with few assets and fewer heirs. It had been no spur of the moment thing. The constant changes in his lifestyle and the inherent dangers of his career deemed that he keep the document up to date, although this latest version had been languishing on his laptop for several months. He'd never quite gotten around to printing it off and having it signed and witnessed and notarized. He had brushed it off as procrastination, but if he were to be perfectly honest with himself, it had more to do with denial. To sign this new will was to make the old one null and void, and ultimately, to admit to yet another failure.

The old will, of course, had named Kate Pike as his main beneficiary, but had been back when they were still trying to make a go of it, before she had given up on him completely and given him back his ring. She had been the first person he'd looked up when Naval Intelligence had posted him to Pearl, and they'd had a couple of good years together. But inevitably, Mac's memory had caught up to them and though he'd tried to hide it, Kate had been no one's fool. She'd made the decision to end it before things turned completely bitter. They were still friends, and the last he'd heard, she'd married some cop from Honolulu. He'd had half a mind to leave the will as it was, but he supposed Kate's new husband might be suspicious about her receiving such a windfall from an old boyfriend, and so he'd changed it one final time.

It was depressingly simple. In many ways it was not much changed from the first will he'd drawn up for himself when he'd first gone to work at JAG all those years back. Only the names had changed. The Stearman now went to Mattie Grace, instead of Josh Pendry. It was a better choice anyways. Mattie had learned to fly in the old bi-plane, and he doubted Annie Pendry would have appreciated the bequest to her son. Mattie was the closest he had come to having a daughter, even though she had left him several years ago, after finally making peace with her father. He hadn't seen her in almost two years, though she emailed him regularly and still called on the holidays. She was in college now, and he'd never quite broken himself of the habit of sending her a check every month to "buy fresh pizza."

The Corvette, of course went to Turner. Not just because they'd worked on it together, but because it had been the price agreed upon years ago, when he'd changed his will to name Sturgis as executor of his will after Mac and Clay had married. The Harley still went to Jack Keeter, which left nothing but the money and a few personal effects. With his mother gone now, it all went to Sergei, save for a couple of thousand dollars and the few odds and ends that Mattie might want.

It was a simple matter to print it off and find a couple of officials in the Seoul embassy to witness and notarize it for him before he'd dropped it in the mail pouch to Washington, but he understood now why he had put it off for so long. It had been a bitter pill to swallow. It was an admission that he was alone and on the wrong side of forty with no future ahead and no loved ones to share it with.

But it could have been different. –If he had allowed it.

He brushed a finger across the small photograph, lightly tracing the delicate features of the woman he'd never quite been able to let go of. The first time he'd met her, that long ago day in the White House rose garden, he'd half-thought she was Diane, miraculously resurrected from the grave. But Sarah in life haunted him with a relentlessness that eclipsed even Diane's memory. Somewhere along the line, almost without his noticing it, she had become the one. She had been the one great love of his life. She was his closest confidant, his staunchest supporter, his greatest adversary, and ultimately, the one woman he could never have. 

He knew now the reason he couldn't have her. Well, truthfully, he had always known, but it was only now that he was willing to admit it to himself. He had been afraid. He'd been afraid that he would lose her. It seemed inevitable that everyone who really mattered would leave sooner or later. His father had left him first for the war, and later for a Russian peasant woman who somehow had become more important than the wife and son he'd left in the States. His mother hadn't physically left him, but her remarriage to Frank had seemed to him an abandonment of a sort, a sign that she was giving up on her husband and the memory of the family that they had been. The string of adult relationships that followed were even worse. Diane and Jordan had been murdered. Annie had never been able to accept him for who he really was. Renee had tried to make him into something he wasn't, and Kate and Meg had just grown tired of the endless dance and gone off to make their own careers.

And then, one day, there was Mac.

She didn't judge him or try to mold him. She simply accepted …and she stayed. She'd been there through all of it: his search for his father, his brushes with Palmer, his grief for Diane and Jordan and the sting of a dozen failed relationships, his return to flying and back again to JAG. No matter the headaches or heartaches she'd stood by him through it all until he slowly realized he could not imagine his life without her. The thought had terrified him and though he knew he had only to reach for her –to say the words and have all he'd ever wanted, he found that he could not. All the people he'd ever really loved had left him, and he could not bear the loss of her. So he'd let things continue as they had, paralyzed with his love for her, always waiting for the other shoe to drop –until one day it finally did. Even Mac could not wait forever.

From somewhere in the distance, the faint drone of an engine grew steadily louder, floating over the ridge, across the valley and through the window of his dingy cell. A moment later he could make out the distinct thump of a rotor blade beating heavily at the air. Rising from his chair, he turned back to the window and peered through the grate. The distinct shape of a black helicopter soared over the ridge then swept low over the fields. The wind from the rotor sliced through the tall grass at the edge of the fields then buffeted the spindly plants the workers tended, forcing the prisoners to shield their faces from the blast. 

He spared one more look at the photograph before tucking it back into his pocket.  In the end, it was still the best solution that he could think of. Clay would soon be on his way home to his wife and daughter. Penny would have her father back and Mac… Well, if this was the best that he could do for Mac, to leave her with her husband and a father for her child, then so be it.

Glancing back out the window, he watched the aircraft drop low over the field and hover a short distance from the prison compound. It turned slightly as it landed and he caught sight of the bold red star emblazoned on its side, near the tail rotor. He was surprised by the wave of relief that washed over him as he recognized the markings. It was almost over. The Chinese were here. It was time. He was ready.

***

            "Son of a bitch!" Clay whispered, laying flat in the tall grass as the chopper swept over them.

            Galindez could not actually hear him, what with the screaming of the engines over head, but he'd tilted his head to look at Clay and had clearly read his lips. Although he concurred wholeheartedly, he was still a bit startled by the epithet. Webb, as rule, did not curse. Even when his temper flared to the breaking point, he usually found more creative and cutting ways to express his displeasure. He supposed it was just one more bit of proof that this whole operation really had gone to hell.

            He waited for a moment until the chopper had passed and then tapped Webb, gaining his attention. "Do you think they spotted us?"

            Webb considered this for a moment. "If they did, we'll know soon enough. They'll come back for a second pass. Did you spot the guns?"

            Victor nodded. "Looked like fifty calibers. Even if they are out for a pleasure cruise, they can handle trouble if it comes."

            Webb slowly parted the thick patch of grass in front of him and risked a peak towards the prison compound. "Well, there goes plan A," he said sourly.

            From the ground, the narrow strips of tall grass between the fields provided good cover and an opportunity to approach the compound unseen. But from the air, they were completely exposed. Not to mention out of time.

            Webb heard a soft rustle to his right and saw the woman stealthily creeping up beside him.

            "We should go," she hissed.

            "No," he said sharply, "not until it's over."

            "It _is over," she snapped. "We go now."_

            She froze suddenly as she felt the sharp edge of the pistol barrel press against the base of her skull, just behind her ear and heard the soft click of the safety being released. She rolled her gaze in his direction. The eyes that met hers were flat and cold, the color of mossy stones in a river bottom. There was death in those eyes …and determination. 

            "It's over when I say it is."

She expelled a careful breath. "You are a fool," she said. "We will die here."

            Had she been a more timid woman, his expression would have chilled her. "I'm prepared for that."

            Her eyes flicked from his to lock with Galindez. "This is not the agreement we made."

            "No," Victor said coldly. "It's not."

            Webb nudged the muzzle of the pistol a little harder into her neck. "I'm renegotiating," he said abruptly. "If you or any of your men try to take out of here before I say so, you'll be the first one I shoot."

            Her jaw clenched but she said nothing. After a long pause, she finally nodded her acquiescence. Webb slowly eased the pistol away from her ear, but kept his arm across her back, the weight of the gun heavy upon her shoulder.

            The chopper's engine faded to silence with a low, protesting moan and from somewhere beneath it they heard the higher pitched sound of a smaller engine. Glancing carefully through the weeds, they were able to make out the low, blocky shape of the military style Hummer crawling over the rough road and across the field to the chopper.

            "What do we do?" Galindez asked.

            Clay glanced from the compound to the helicopter to the rapidly approaching vehicle, his mind swiftly calculating the odds of the rough idea that was forming in his mind. It wasn't really a plan. Hell, it was barely even a concept, but given the fact that their time table had been substantially advanced, it was the only thing he could think of.

            "We take the chopper," he said.

            "With what?" the woman asked acidly.

            "With your men," he replied. "Right now, that chopper is the biggest threat on the field. We have to take it out and disable it. Then, when they come out of the compound with Rabb, we'll attack the vehicles. If we can get control of them, we can collect your men and make a run for it."

            The woman gazed at him scornfully. "Even if we do succeed, they will come after us. They will call in other helicopters. Do you really think we would stand a chance?"

            "It's the only chance we have, unless you see a better one." Clay retorted.

            The woman considered him for a long moment. "Actually," she said at last, "I do."

            "Would you care to share it with us?" Galindez asked sarcastically.

            Her smile was cool. "Of course," she replied. "—For a price."

            "How much?" Clay snapped.

            "One hundred thousand dollars," she replied. 

            "Fine," he said tersely. "Now tell me."

            "We take the helicopter and fly it out of here," she replied. Turning slowly, she nodded towards the tallest of her men, the outline of his body almost completely concealed in the grasses. "Mat-Sun is a man of many talents. He can fly the aircraft. We ambush the vehicles, collect your friend and then fly out of here."

            Webb glanced to Galindez. "Works for me," Victor said.

            "Then let's do it."

            "What about the kid?" Victor asked, nodding to the boy, also crouched low in the grass a few feet away.

            Webb sighed, he really didn't know what in the hell Rabb had been thinking, bringing a kid into something like this. –And he frankly couldn't believe Victor had allowed it. But then it seemed nothing was as it should be with this particular operation. He thought of insisting that the boy stay put, but he'd seen the way the kid had argued with them, back on the mountain, and he knew the boy wouldn't listen and would follow them anyway. Judging from the hard-eyed pack of thugs Galindez and Rabb had managed to collect for this little operation, he doubted the smugglers would have much tolerance for the kid. And he had promised Rabb. He sighed. There really was only one option.

            "He comes with us," Clay said quietly, then looked to the woman. "Brief your men."

***

            The last body fell, swift and silent, to the ground before being pulled away into the tall grass behind the helicopter.

            "The chopper is secured," Galindez reported. His voice was calm and businesslike. A moment later a figure in a slightly ill-fitting jumpsuit took up position beside the chopper.

            "The men are getting into place," he added.

            Webb nodded. "Let's just hope the guards up in the tower don't notice anything different and get suspicious. Our friend Mat-Sun won't have an easy time taking off if they decide to open up with those guns."

            They had made their way into a small drainage ditch that ran along one side of the road, branching off here and there to trickle a meager supply of water into the fields of spindly vegetables.

            "You think they'll come in one vehicle or two?" Galindez asked.

            "Two," Webb replied.  "Yi won't want to let them leave without a proper send-off. You take the first driver. I'll take the second." He glanced to the woman. "You start in on the rest of their escort. Take the ones around Rabb first."

            "And if there's only one vehicle?"

            "Galindez still takes the driver. We'll take everyone else."

            "Here they come," Galindez said, bringing the sniper rifle to his shoulder and looking through the scope. "Rabb is in the second vehicle." 

Victor paused and then swore softly. "This won't be an easy, they're moving fast."

            Webb raised his own weapon and sighted down the barrel. Sure enough, the first Hummer held a small contingent of four guards. The second one was the jackpot. Rabb was cuffed and chained in the back seat between the two Chinese Agents. Yi sat in the front next to the driver. Clay expelled a soft breath as he fought back the sudden wave of tension. There could be no margin for error. Even the smallest hesitation could make the difference between killing the driver and accidentally hitting Rabb.

            Galindez must have shared his thoughts, for he shifted slightly in the grass. "We need to slow them down," he said. "I'd hate to miss and hit the Captain."

            "I'm open to suggestions," Clay muttered.

            "I can do it," a soft voice piped up from somewhere behind them.

            Webb resisted the urge to glare at the kid. "Stay where you're at," he snapped as he continued to follow the progress of the Hummers through his sights. They were the typical military models, with open tops and a large caliber machine gun mounted on the back of the lead vehicle.

            It happened so quickly that there was no time to react. He heard the small rip of the Velcro, heard Galindez's harsh exclamation and glanced over in time to see the boy slash a vicious stroke down his own arm with the knife he had pulled from Victor's belt. The blood flowed freely as he dropped the knife and the raised his arm and wiped it across his cheek, leaving a wide bloody streak across the side of his face. Clutching his wounded arm close to his side, the kid scrambled up the bank and launched himself directly in the path of the oncoming trucks, calling out loudly in almost unintelligible Korean.

            As diversions went, he couldn't have done better himself. The driver of the lead vehicle, startled by the sudden appearance of what appeared to be a hysterical and badly wounded boy, swerved wildly to avoid the child. The Hummer careened wildly towards the edge of the road, its tires scrambling to maintain traction as it skidded to a stop. The second vehicle braked abruptly and Webb saw the occupants immediately tense, the guards reaching for their weapons. It was his last clear memory before he closed his finger on the trigger of his weapon and the scene exploded in a barrage of gunfire. 

            The driver of the second vehicle was killed instantly, as was one of the Chinese agents. The driver of the first Hummer, shielded somewhat by the awkward angle at which the truck had tilted, was struck in the thigh but managed to press his foot hard into the accelerator and crank sharply on the wheel, sending the vehicle down into the ditch and across the rough terrain of the open field. One of his companions was thrown from the back and this time, Galindez's shot was clean and true. The man fell like a carelessly tossed rag doll, his outstretched hand inches from where the boy knelt, cowering in the middle of the road.

            From somewhere in the distance, they could hear the whine of the engine as the helicopter prepared for takeoff and the chatter of distant gunfire as the guards in the tower raised the alarm. Charging up the embankment, Webb topped in time to see Yi shove the lifeless body of the driver into the road and slide behind the wheel. He raised his gun again and fired. The bullet struck the General in the shoulder, and Yi ducked low behind the wheel, flooring the accelerator and sending the Hummer roaring down the road, directly towards the boy. He charged without thinking, grabbing at the boy's shirt collar and dragging him back as the truck roared past. He caught a glimpse of Rabb in the back, struggling wildly with the Chinese agent who was trying to reach the gun mounted on the back of the vehicle. 

            He moved as if on autopilot, shoving the boy back towards the ditch and using his gun to shove himself painfully to his feet. Galindez and the woman were both firing now. Galindez, taking aim at the tires of the vehicle that held Rabb, the woman at the escort vehicle which had scrambled its way back up on the road and was returning fire. The prison compound was now boiling over with armed guards, scrambling to herd the prisoners back to a secure location and mount reinforcements to support their commander.

            Raising his weapon, Webb sighted carefully on the driver of the escort vehicle. Tracking its progress as it curved the bend in the road and made towards the helicopter. Just like shooting skeet, he told himself and allowed his weapon to lead the target. He expelled another careful breath and squeezed the trigger. There was a split second of hesitation and then the driver slumped over the wheel. The truck lurched wildly off the road and down the steep embankment rolling end over end before coming to a rest in the bottom of the irrigation ditch.

            He turned his attention back to the other vehicle. Rabb was struggling furiously now with the Chinese agent, but his handcuffs prevented him from doing much more than jerking wildly at the man's clothes and limbs. Finally his adversary wielded him a wicked blow that seemed to faze him, for he slumped back against the seat and the agent turned back to take control of the gun. He felt something strike him hard behind the knees and his bad leg collapsed beneath him sending him rolling as the bullets sprayed frighteningly close. Reaching out he grabbed hold of the boy and rolled both of them off of the road and down into the grass. He spared no time to thank the boy, but crawled furiously back up the bank in pursuit of their quarry.

 It wasn't all bad, though, Clay thought as he caught sight of the Hummer. Yi was rapidly approaching the helicopter which had finally gained enough momentum to lift off. The General and his Chinese associate were about to get their second unpleasant surprise of the day.

            The chopper lifted off and swung suddenly, turning its guns to face the Hummer, but Yi must have anticipated something, for he jerked the wheel sharply, sending the truck off the road and down into the open vegetable field. The chopper opened up with the guns, and Clay cringed, momentarily glad that Rabb was unconscious on back seat. The Chinese officer was turning his gun upon the helicopter now, and Clay saw one or two of the bullets strike home on the windscreen and fuselage of the chopper. He followed the progress of Yi's vehicle back towards the prison, and saw the gates of the compound open up to expel two more vehicles, loaded with soldiers and fully armed.

            "We've got to get out of here!" He yelled.

            The woman nodded her understanding and fired her weapon in the air, catching the pilot's attention. The chopper, forced to break off it's pursuit of the Hummer, swung across the field in their direction. They shielded their faces from the spray of sand and small stones the blades kicked up and quickly made their way towards the open door.

            "Everybody in!" Webb yelled, slapping Galindez on the shoulder.

            Galindez looked around. "Where's the kid?"

            Glancing back down into the ditch, Clay saw the boy still lying face down where he'd left him. Half skidding, half sliding down into the ditch, he reached Kim and flipped him over. What with his act in the middle of the road, the kid was a mess, but he quickly saw that there was more blood there than the knife could account for. A deep red patch had blossomed across the boy's shirt front, seeping from a wound in his side.

            Galindez sliding to a halt beside him, assessed the situation in an instant and slung the kid over his shoulder in a fireman's carry.

            "Let's go!" he shouted, "before they decide to leave without us!"

            The two men scrambled back up the bank to the road and Webb reached out to steady the boy as they heaved him inside the chopper while the woman laid down cover fire. Rolling in after Galindez, he caught the pilot's attention and jerked his thumb into the air. "Take it up!" he shouted, barely able to hear himself above the roar of the engine and the wind.

            He pointed in the direction of Yi's battered Hummer, now roaring through the gates of the compound.

            "Tell him to go after them!" He shouted to the woman.

            She made no move to comply. Instead, she simply looked at him. "You do realize you are madmen," she said calmly, "we will all die."

            Unexpectedly, Galindez swung his weapon so that it was pointed at the pilot's back. "We all have to die someday," Galindez said, "But whether or not it's today is up to you. Now tell him!"

            She gave a sharp nod and shouted to the pilot. He gave her a slightly disbelieving look, but then acknowledged her with a slight shrug and turned the chopper towards the prison.

            They swept low over the prison gates, Galindez and Webb joining the smugglers in the open doors of the helicopter as they exchanged fire with the soldiers on the ground. The Hummer had rolled to a stop in the middle of the compound. Yi was slumped across the wheel, though whether he was dead or just unconscious it was hard to tell.  The Chinese agent and another guard were struggling frantically with something on the floor of the backseat, and Webb realized they were struggling with the padlock that secured Rabb's shackles to the floor of the truck. They were repelling a hail of small arms fire now and all of them were hovering close to the floor in an attempt to stay clear of the bullets. Suddenly a round ripped through the side of the helicopter, tearing a jagged hole in the fuselage and sending a shower of sparks from the wiring it had ripped through as it passed.

            "It's coming from the tower!" Victor yelled, pointing to the guards who had turned their heavy, fifty caliber machine guns upon the chopper. Immediately the woman went to one of the guns mounted in the side door of the chopper and began returning fire.

            "We must go!" She shouted.

            "No!" Webb yelled. Throwing down his empty rifle, he reached for his pistol and slid closer to the door, risking another glance down. Rabb had come around again, and was fighting now with the men who were still trying to unshackle him from the vehicle. Another set of hands grabbed his shoulders and yanked him back, forcing him to lie prone across the seat. He looked skyward to where the chopper hovered and his eyes met Webb's. For a moment, time seemed to freeze. Then Rabb shook his head, and his lips seemed to form a single word.

            _Go._

            Galindez's hand clamped down suddenly on Webb's arm. "We can't stay here. We're ducks in a shooting gallery." Though his words were shouted, they barely registered in Webb's ear. The two men traded a long look, filled with agony and understanding. Finally, Webb nodded.

            "Do it." He said harshly.

            Another barrage of bullets rained upon the chopper, one of them smashing through the windscreen and the pilot shouted something that Webb assumed was an obscenity, but managed to keep control of the aircraft and bring it around for another pass. Galindez knelt against the open door and raised his rifle to his shoulder as he sited it in and waited for the chopper to swing around again for a clear shot. Finally the vehicle came into view. He had a clear shot …and still, he hesitated. A second passed, then two. It seemed like an eternity in the midst of the constant assault. Then Galindez slowly lowered the rifle and shook his head. His eyes were shining, and Webb could just make out the hint of dampness brimming upon the ebony lashes.

            Wordlessly, Webb reached out and took the rifle from him, denying the slight trembling of his hands as he did so. He would not falter, he told himself as he lifted the rifle to his shoulder. He was not a man. He was a machine –a machine programmed to kill. He seated his eye against the scope and repeated the mantra silently to himself as he let his training take over. One shot, one kill. He felt his heart beat begin to slow. He fixed the crosshairs upon the Chinese agent and fired. The man slumped to floor of the Hummer. He focused upon the North Korean guard and repeated the process, watching as the man's body slipped to the ground. He was dimly aware of Galindez firing in his ear and saw the second guard, the one who had held Rabb down, fall away from the vehicle. He swung the rifle to bear upon his final target and froze as the brilliant blue gaze met his through the barrel of the scope.

            An eternity seemed to pass between them, and in that instant Rabb's face shifted from the tired, dirty intelligence operative to the young, fresh faced lawyer in Navy whites that he'd first met in the White House Rose garden all those years ago. It shifted again, and he saw Rabb's surprised face peering at him from the darkness of the ship's engine room the night they had gone after Clark Palmer. And again, filled with gratitude that cold winter night beside the polished black granite wall of the Vietnam Memorial the night he had brought Sergei out of Chechnya. And then it was just Rabb, tired and worn and staring up at him with a look of understanding and Clay could not help but think of their parting words.

            _'You have to do this. You have to live with it, because I can't.'_

            He suddenly wasn't so sure about that, but Rabb nodded slowly then, his eyes granting both permission and absolution as he deliberately mouthed the words.

            _Do it._

            Webb put finger on the trigger…expelled another shallow breath as he waited for the next heartbeat to pass and then…

            The explosion of the gunshot was loud in his ear. Through the scope of the rifle, he saw the body jerk with the impact, saw the spray of blood and a hundred other little details that he would spend the rest of his life trying to forget. The rifle clattered to the deck, dropping from his suddenly nerveless fingers.  The round discharged harmlessly into the ground below. Slowly, he turned and raised his eyes to the woman. She stood at his shoulder, her weapon still smoking in her hand. The brown eyes that met his were flat and lifeless.

            "It is done." She said simply. "Now we go."

_***_

            The sound of the Marine helicopter making its routine pass over the cemetery to the barracks kept him locked in the vivid memory and for a moment it was not the simple marble headstone he saw, but the lifeless body of a man who had been a colleague, an irritant, an adversary, and ultimately, a friend. There were still nights when he woke in a cold sweat with the sound of the helicopter and the memory of that gunshot still ringing in his ears. Those were the nights he would go to the living room and sit in the chair in front of the fire. Those were the times when he would while away the sleepless hours carefully replaying the events in his eidetic mind, reassuring himself by checking the facts against the nightmares. And there were many nightmares. Most of them ended with him pulling the trigger and looking up to see no one standing behind him. No woman. No smoking gun. --Nothing but the cold and terrible certainty that he really had done it after all.

            A small sound shook him from his reverie and he turned to see Sarah, standing quietly behind him, tears streaming down her cheeks. He pulled his hand from his pocket, half thinking to brush them away, but the look in her eyes stopped him and he curled his fingers into his palm, curbing the instinct.

            "So you didn't do it?" She asked. Her voice was rough with tears.

            He shook his head. "No," he said quietly, returning his hand to his pocket.

            "Would you have done it?"

            He drew a deep breath. "I meant to."

            She scowled at his avoidance of the question. "That's not what—

            He shot her an irritated look. "I don't know, Sarah." He spoke harshly, but his eyes were desperate. "I don't _know._ Sometimes I think maybe— he hesitated and shook his head again. "I'll never know the answer to that question. –And I'm glad of it. I'm too afraid of what the answer might be."

            She fell silent again, absorbing his words as she framed her next question.

            "So the woman killed him?"

            "Yes."

            "Because she thought you couldn't do it? …Because she wanted to get out of there?"

            He shrugged. "That was probably part of it. But in the end, I think she would have killed him anyway."

            "Why?" Sarah asked, clearly confused.

            "Because," Clay replied, "She was paid to do it. She was the Black Dragon."


	20. Chapter 20

**Chapter 20**

            "She was a Chinese assassin from Hong Kong," Victor tossed his empty beer bottle into the garbage can and dropping the lid back down upon it. "Began as a prostitute and moved up when one of her customers got a little rough and she killed him. She was part of a string of girls belonging to a fairly powerful Hong Kong crime lord who went by the same alias. The big man saw potential in her, and covered up the murder. Then he sent her to school. He had her trained in guns, martial arts, poison …explosives --whatever he could think of."

            "A regular black widow," Sturgis observed.

            Galindez nodded. "Something like that. When the British turned Hong Kong back over to the Chinese in '99, the whole place went up for grabs. The real Black Dragon was ruined financially and killed in the turf wars that broke out between the crime lords on the island and the ones on the main land who were looking to expand their territory. The woman was smart, and she got out without being noticed. Apparently took a little slice of her employer's pie when she went. –Along with his name. No outside of Hong Kong had really seen the Black Dragon, but they had heard of him and she capitalized on the reputation. She moved to Bangkok, picked up a job here and there, started a little smuggling ring and began branching out. Her mother had been Korean and she had an eye for opportunity and a few good contacts, so she took up blockade running, smuggling refugees and goods back and forth across the border. Plus she still had some of her contacts in China, so she didn't have much trouble getting in and out of North Korea."

            "Why do you think she did it?" Sturgis asked.

            Galindez shrugged. "For the money, probably. She was on everybody's payroll. Ours, the North Koreans, even the ANSP." He smiled at Turner's blank look. "The Agency on National Security Planning --South Korean intelligence," he clarified.

            "Oh," Sturgis said.

            "After the British left Hong Kong, she was pretty bitter with the Communists. She was perfectly willing to sell the North Koreans arms and supplies, but she only sold her information to the South Koreans."

            Galindez tilted his head thoughtfully. "Webb never could prove it, but he's always suspected she was working for the South Koreans on that one. He figured that when she was approached by Rabb, she took wind of it to the South Koreans and they had her pursue it. Granted, they were our allies, but they aren't always long on trust and they were worried about how much of a threat a captured American intelligence agent could cause. Clay always believed they paid her to pull the trigger." He smiled grimly. "I guess they didn't want us talking out of school."

            "That would make sense," Turner admitted. However, he was privately thinking that it might not be the only explanation. 

He couldn't help but think of the missing money. As the executor of Harm's will, it had fallen to him to settle the estate. It was a job that had been made more difficult than usual when it came to balancing out the bank accounts. The day after the date that had been officially recorded by the navy as Harm's death, a sum of nearly twenty-five thousand dollars had been drawn out of one of Harm's savings accounts in Honolulu and transferred to a bank in Bangkok. He had tried to track the money, thinking that perhaps one of Harm's bank cards had been stolen and was being used illicitly. However, the money had already been transferred from Bangkok to Hong Kong and from there it had disappeared. It occurred to him now that there was another party other than the South Koreans who might have hired the woman. Perhaps in the end, Harm had worried that he'd asked too much of his friends.

            A heavy thud echoed on the access door of the garage, causing both men to start.

            "Hey, you guys still down here?" Bud's voice was slightly muffled and a little curious. "Bobbie says the food's getting cold, and they want to leave for the cemetery soon."

            The door handle rotated slightly, then stopped and Sturgis breathed a sigh of relief for remembering to throw the lock.

            "Guys?" Bud called again.

            Sturgis traded a quick look with Galindez and glanced at Webb's car. It was still hardly presentable. "Uh…yeah, hang on just a second."

            Motioning furiously, he yanked the dust cover from the Corvette and tossed and end to Victor, who helped him carry it across the garage and drape it across Webb's car, effectively shielding it from view. Hitting the lights, he darkened the stall in which the Mercedes was parked and flipped another switch, illuminating the bay in which the classic, cherry red 1966 Corvette Stingray sat. Only then did he reach over and open the door to admit Bud.

            "Sorry," he said sheepishly. "Victor and I got talking cars and lost track of time."

            Bud's eye was immediately drawn to the gleaming red muscle car. "Wow," he said softly. "Captain Rabb's Corvette..." he approached it slowly, shaking his head as his eye traveled over the sleek, slightly curved lines. "I'd forgotten you had it."

            Victor seemed to pale a bit at the mention of Rabb's name, but Bud didn't notice. His eyes were only for the car and he drew a little closer to peer into the gleaming black leather interior. "This car was his baby. He hardly ever drove it to work unless the weather was good. He mostly drove it on Saturdays, remember Gunny?"

            Galindez shook his head. "Actually, no." Galindez murmured. "I knew he had one, but I never saw it. He must not have finished restoring it until after I left JAG."

            Bud frowned as he considered this. "Yeah," he said at last. "I guess you're right." He looked to Sturgis. "You drive it much?"

            "Every now and then," Sturgis admitted.

            Actually, he hardly ever drove it, aside from the occasional tour around the block to keep the engine tuned. The fact of the matter was that driving it sometimes made him just a touch uncomfortable, as if the car still somehow belonged to Harm. Though he was loathe admitting it to anyone else, there were times when he slid behind the wheel that he felt Rabb's presence so strongly, he was afraid to look into the seat beside him for fear of what or who he might see. For a moment, standing there beside Galindez, he could almost picture Harm standing there beside it, leaning against the gleaming fender and fixing them with that same old cocky grin.

            _Come on, Rabb would say, _'Let's take her for a spin. You know you want to.'__

            And suddenly, he did want to. He shot a look at Galindez, and a slow smile spread across his mouth. "Actually," he said softly. "I was thinking of taking her out to the cemetery today. You want to go with?"

            Galindez hesitated.

            "I'll let you drive," Sturgis offered.

            Bud, who had turned to make his way out the door and back to the food had to pause at that. "Oh man, Gunny. You'd better take him up on that one. That's an offer nobody can refuse."

            Galindez stared at the car so intently that for a moment, Sturgis wondered if he couldn't see Rabb, too. "Yeah," Victor said at last. "Yeah, I'd really like that."

            Sturgis smiled gently. "I think maybe Harm would like it too."

_***_

            "I'm glad," Mac said at last, drawing nearer and stopping beside him. "I'm glad that you didn't do it, but…" she gestured to the grave. "It still doesn't explain all of this."

            She did not look at him, but kept her eyes firmly on the headstone as she spoke. "Bud spoke to the Navy coroner who processed the body when it came to Pearl. I know there's a body in this grave, Clay," she said quietly.  "And I also know that it isn't Harm." She drew a deep breath. "Who is it? Who did you bury here?"

            There was a long moment of silence as Clay seemed to struggle with the question. Then, with a tired sigh, he finally surrendered the last of the truth.

            "His name was Kim Hong-jin."

_ ***_

_Ten Years earlier…_

_Somewhere over the __South China Sea___

            Incredibly, the chopper had managed to hold together to the rendezvous point, another scruffy looking warehouse in a dingy little industrial settlement that hovered somewhere between a town and a city. There, among stacks of crates and the smell of rotting fish and grain they were quickly transferred to a second helicopter, while the wounded Chinese bird was draped in camouflage and rolled into the warehouse. Twenty minutes out of the town, the boy finally came around. Galindez had done the best he could with the army field kit from the Chinese chopper, applying liberal dressings to the wound and feeding the kid some morphine but they both knew it wasn't enough. By the time they left the peninsula behind them and struck out across the open water towards the weighting freighter, the boy was coughing blood.

            "How bad is it?" Webb asked quietly.

            "Bad," Galindez replied. "He needs a hospital."

            "There is a doctor on the ship," the woman put in quietly. It was the first she had spoken since they had escaped from the prison camp, though she had handed them another bag filled with medical supplies when they had boarded the second chopper.

            "It won't be enough." Victor said. "The bullet tore him up pretty bad inside. He needs surgery, and he needs it now." He glanced at Webb. "Maybe we should have them take him back and drop him off someplace. We can leave some money to pay for it. His chances might be better."

            "No." Webb and the woman spoke, both in unison.

            "They'll be looking everywhere for us." Webb said. "We leave him somewhere and they'll be sure to get their hands on him, and anyone who tries to get him help. It's too dangerous."

            The woman nodded her agreement. "His chances will be better in Seoul. Even better if you can get him to an American doctor." Her face shifted slightly. "Medicine is different here in Asia. It is as much mystery as science. Even if you did get him to one of their hospitals, he would likely not survive."

            They had tried to make him as comfortable as they could and stretched him out across the deck of the chopper. Victor knelt beside him, adding dressings and maintaining pressure upon them, but it was of little use, the blood still seeped through. Webb had finally slid to the deck beside him and lifted the boy's head to rest against his knee, reaching down every now and then to check for pulse and heart rate. Not that it really did much good, but it was something to do, and it kept the image of Rabb from looping constantly through his head.

            The pilot's voice crackled over the intercom and the woman informed them that they were fifteen minutes from the freighter when the boy started coughing again. The blood was coming faster now, bright red arterial blood, and as Webb clutched tightly at the boy's shoulder's stabilizing his airway, he caught Victor's eye and saw the tiny shake of his head. It was too much. The tight rein he had been keeping upon his emotions finally snapped and he shook his head angrily.

            "No, damn it!" He grated, placing his hands tightly on either side of the boy's face and forced the frightened brown eyes to meet his. "Don't you quit on us now, kid. You've made this far, you can make it the rest of the way. Stay with us! You hear me?"

            The boy spat out another mouthful of blood and smiled weakly. "It all right," he rasped his voice so thin as to barely be heard above the muted thump of the rotor blades. "I know …Joe dead. …Can't keep promise." The boy struggled for a wheezing breath. "And I …don't want…to go back…"

            Clay frowned in confusion at the kid's words. "What's he talking about?"

            Victor smiled faintly. "It was the deal he made with Rabb. He told Rabb he'd set us up with the Dragon, but Rabb would have to do something big for him in return. He wanted Rabb to get him out of Korea and take him back to the States with him."

            Clay suddenly remembered what Rabb had said about the boy and looked back down into the kid's eyes, willing him to hang on. "He told me," Clay said firmly, "he told me about his promise to you and he asked me to keep it for him." He paused. "And I told him I would."

            The boy shook his head weakly. "No," he said faintly. "…He say it would be hard. ..He say he would have to fight. …And now he's dead." The boy smiled weakly. "I never go to America now."

            Webb glared back at him. "Are you kidding me? You saved my life, kid. You tried to help us save Rabb's. You're hero. There's no way they're going to turn away a hero. You're going to America Kim, and you're going to get a hero's welcome."

            The boy's face seemed to brighten a bit and a spark of hope seemed to ignite in his eyes. "Really?" he gasped. "I go to America?"

            "Yeah," Webb whispered, fighting to keep his voice steady. He could already see the light fading from the boy's eyes.

            "I get a hero's welcome?"

            Galindez reached for the kid's hand, giving it a hard squeeze. "With all the trimmings," he said firmly, though his eyes belied the confidence in his voice.

            The boy looked back to Webb. "Promise?" He asked faintly.

            Clayton Webb was a man who, as a rule, did not make promises. Sooner or later, he always feared he might have to break them. This time however, he was willing to make an exception.

            "Yeah kid," he said roughly, dimly aware of trembling in his voice and the painful knot in his throat. "I promise."

            The boy gazed at him steadily then, his mouth pulling back in a wide toothy smile.

            "You got a deal, Joe." He said.

            And then he was gone.

_***_

            "So you got him to America after all," Sarah said looking past her husband to Harm –no—Kim's grave.

            Clay nodded. "It was what the kid wanted." He shrugged. "It was what Rabb wanted. – It just wasn't quite the way either of them intended."

            He allowed a small twisted smile to quirk at the corner of his mouth. "Under the circumstances, I figured Harm wouldn't mind –and it had the added advantage of getting the Navy off our backs."

            "And me."

            He sighed. "I knew what it would do to you –and Sergei. The not knowing would have eaten you up inside. I thought that if there was a body to bury, a place for you to grieve, it might help."

            He paused, his eyes pleading with her to understand. "I just wanted to give you some closure."

            "I would have preferred the truth."

            "I was afraid of the truth," he admitted softly, and she knew he wasn't just talking about Korea anymore.

            She forced herself to meet his gaze, and saw something she had only ever seen in him once before, years ago, in a seedy little hotel in Ciudad del Este. It was uncertainty, mingled with a healthy dose of heartache. God, how long had they been doing this to each other? And why had she never noticed it until now? One way or the other, it had to stop.

            She allowed her eyes to flit to the grave and then back to his face. In that fraction of a heartbeat, his expression had hardened to stony resignation, like a condemned man awaiting his sentence. But she wasn't ready to pass judgment just yet. There was one more thing she needed to know.

            "What Penny said –about me wishing it had been you who died instead of Harm—you really believe that, don't you?" she whispered.

            He said nothing, merely dropped his head and closed his eyes, and from somewhere deep inside she felt the small, clean snap of her heart as it broke. –Whether for him or for herself, she wasn't sure.

            "How long, Clay?" she asked quietly. She was fighting hard now to control the tremor in her voice. "How long have you felt this way?"

            He laughed. It was a harsh rusty sound, like an old nail being pulled from a weathered board. "How long have we known each other, Sarah?"

            He drew a heavy breath and raked a hand through his hair, looking more lost and defeated than she had ever seen him.

            "I always knew I'd never be your first choice. Hell, if Rabb hadn't been such a commitment phobic idiot, we both know I'd never have stood a chance."

            She nodded slowly, accepting the truth of his words. "I loved him," she said simply. She refused to apologize for that.

            "You never stopped." There was more than a hint of accusation in his tone. He lifted one shoulder in a small shrug. "Don't get me wrong, I knew what I was getting into. I wasn't so naïve as to think that that kind of feeling --the connection the two of you had-- could ever really go away. I guess I'm just grateful for what we did have."

            "Did?" she echoed softly.

            He smiled painfully. "Let's not kid ourselves, Sarah. I've always known this would change things between us. There's no sense in pretending that we can go back to the way things were before. Things are different now."

             She bit her lip. He was right about that. In truth, things had been different between them for some time. The only difference now was that she finally knew why. She honestly didn't know what hurt more: the fact that he had deceived her, or the knowledge that through all these years and all they'd been through together, he'd never really been certain of her love for him. She didn't even know who she was angrier at: him, for hiding these feelings from her for all these years, or herself for allowing him to believe such a thing. 

One thing was certain: she couldn't deny her own guilt in this situation. God, even Penny had seen it. They were right. She had never really let Harm go. She had sacrificed the living on the altar of the dead.

But he had never really understood what lay between her and Harm. _–The hell he didn't, she told herself viciously. The trouble was he understood it too well --maybe even better than she did herself. Why else would he allow her to come back here year after year and play the grieving widow to another man's memory? She wondered if the flowers he took to Singer weren't his own form of private retribution. If they were, she couldn't blame him. –And if they weren't… well, she was in no position to blame him for that, either._

"So where does this leave us?"  
            His eyes were unreadable. "You tell me."

"You're right about this changing things between us," she said at last. She shook her head, her voice lowering to a whisper. "My God, --I've been such a fool. All these years…"

"Sarah—

She raised her hands, cutting him off. "No, Clay." She said firmly.  "No more. No more apologies and excuses.  It's too late for that."

She laughed tremulously. "You want to hear something truly ironic? I dreamed about Harm the other night –the night you had your heart attack. I dreamed that he asked me why I chose you instead of him. I told him it was because he could never let go, because he never really trusted me."

She was blinking furiously against the tears now, and through the misty sheen she could see that he had gone very still. She raised her hand to dash them away and saw the painful expression frozen upon his face. Good. She didn't want to be the only one dying here.

"Do you know why I married you, Clay? It was because I thought that you trusted me. I thought that you believed in me."

"I did," he said desperately. "I still do."

She shook her head, feeling the hot streaks of the tears as they dripped freely down her cheeks. "Then why couldn't you believe in my love?"

His shoulders slumped. He didn't have an answer for her. She had known that he wouldn't, but that didn't make it any less painful. Her knees suddenly felt like jelly, and she sank down to the immaculately manicured turf. She stared dully at the white marble headstone that bore Harmon Rabb's name. –Over the grave that held the body of a Korean boy named Kim. She had been such a fool. They both deserved better.

"I don't know if I can forgive you for this, Clay." She said quietly.

"I know."

A long silence followed before he finally worked up the courage to speak again. "Do you want me to leave?" He hesitated, and she really didn't register what he meant until he continued. "I will …if that's what you want. I can get a room at the Willard for tonight and come back for a few things tomorrow. I can stay at the farm until…."

"No." The word surprised even her. She could barely stand to look at him right now, and she kept her eyes glued to the gravestone before her as she spoke. "I'm mad as hell at you right now, but running away from this won't solve anything. It won't change the fact that we've hurt each other terribly. ---And it won't change the fact that even though you've been an ass, I still love you."

The breath he had been holding left his lungs in an audible whoosh and he dropped to his knees beside her. His eyes locked desperately with hers, seeking proof of her words. Even now, he still doubted.

"I love you, Clay." She repeated softly. "I always did. Why can't you believe that?"

He put a hand to her cheek and wiped at the thin trail of tears. He stared at her for a long moment, and she saw the tears shimmering in his own eyes. "I'm trying, sweetheart," he whispered. "Believe me, I'm trying."

He cupped her face between his hands and pressed his forehead into hers as he drew a long, shaky breath. "Do you think," he said at last, his voice tentative, "if I apologize and grovel and spend the rest of my life making it up to you… Do you think we might be able to work our way past this?"

She sniffed and shook her head, rocking it gently against his. "I don't know," she said honestly. "_Ten years, Clay. That's more than half of our marriage…. It's no small thing."_

He closed his eyes and nodded his understanding. The tears were running freely down his own cheeks now. He pulled his hands away from her face and dropped them down upon his knees, clenching them into fists.

"I won't blame you," he choked out, "—If you decide… if we can't make it work.  Just …just tell me what you want and whatever it is, I'll do it." He paused, and drew a raspy breath, summoning every ounce of his courage as he leveled his gaze upon hers. "I know I don't deserve your forgiveness," he said hoarsely, "and I've no right to ask… but it won't stop me from hoping."

This time, it was she who braced his cheeks between her palms, stroking away the tears. "I just don't know, Clay," she said softly. "I don't know if I can, but I know I have to try. This isn't just about you and me anymore. There's Penny to think of, too."

He rocked slowly forward, like a tall tree falling and dropped his head to her shoulder, burying his face against her neck. She felt the tremor that shook his shoulders, and ran a cautious hand through his hair, stroking along the back of his neck and soothing him …soothing herself.

"Forgive me, Sarah. Please." His voice was muffled against the hollow of her throat.

She closed her eyes and pressed her head more tightly to his, seeking comfort in the fierce contact. "I'll try, Clay" she whispered. "I'll try."

***

They walked slowly, side by side through the long, endless rows of white marble. They did not touch or speak. The wound between them was still too fresh and painful for that. By a mutual, unspoken agreement, they had not yet returned to the party. Neither was prepared to face the probing questions or curious glances of their friends. Neither one knew what on earth they were going to say to their daughter when they did go back. And though they both craved the solitude and this time to collect themselves, neither one of them wanted to be alone.

Clay had allowed Sarah to set the pace and direction, immersing himself in his own thoughts as she struck out from Harm's grave and headed into the older parts of the cemetery. They walked slowly along the shady, paved roads, cutting along the back of Arlington House, past the old Amphitheater and winding along towards the new one. He noted the landmarks absently as they passed them: the Main Mast, The Challenger Memorial…the Columbia… and then slowly made their way back to the newer sections. Still, the realization didn't really sink in until she suddenly stopped among an innocuous crop of uniform white stones and he looked down to see the bundle of flowers at his feet.

Yellow roses and Forget Me Nots.

He stood there, dumbfounded for a moment, staring down at the flowers. Belatedly, he became aware that Sarah had backed away, giving him some space, and he slowly knelt and fingered the small bouquet.

_I told you I would come._ He thought the words defiantly to the grave stone, and once again remembered her words so ironically spoken from the depths of his dream.

_You are a man of your word._

After a moment, he rose to his feet, his eyes still fixed upon the flowers.

"Thank you," he said quietly, "—for setting the flowers out. I know she wasn't your favorite person."

She smiled faintly, but her brown eyes were guarded. "I'd like to think that I'm big enough not to hold grudges against the dead." She shrugged. "Besides, I knew it was important to you. The lady at the flower shop said you'd been ordering these for quite a while."

"Eighteen years," he said softly, remembering that first time he'd walked into Violette's flower shop, a little drunk, a lot dazed, and still wondering just what in the hell he was doing there.

He saw the impact of his words as they tightened across her face. Another secret kept from her. —Another type of betrayal. This time, she couldn't quite manage to keep her face impassive. 

"Did you love her?"

It wasn't the first time she'd asked him that, but it was the first time he sensed her doubt. He hated the fact that he'd so shaken her faith in him that she was compelled to ask it again.

"No," he said heavily, staring down at the roses. "But it might have been easier if I had. I would have noticed when she disappeared. I wouldn't have felt so guilty about it."

He looked up into her eyes. "You haven't asked me why."

She shook her head. "I wasn't sure I had the right. You've let me take flowers to—

She broke off abruptly. Harm's grave wasn't really Harm's grave. She tightened her jaw and plunged on. "You let me bring flowers here all these years, and you never said a word."

He scowled at her. "He was my friend too, Sarah."

_And you let him die for you._

The words hung unspoken between them, and he felt his stomach clench. God, he couldn't believe she was still standing here. Maybe she really did love him after all. But it couldn't last, he told himself. She was just in shock. Sooner or later, she would come to her senses …and then she would leave. It was going to kill him to let her go.

"So why did you?" Her voice surprised him from his reverie, and he glanced up at her in confusion.

"What?"

She scowled at him impatiently. "If you didn't love her, why did you bring her flowers all these years? Was it because of the baby?"

He stared at her blankly for a moment. "Yes," he said at last, "…and no…"

He let his gaze fall back to the grave stone and slowly sweep along down the long endless line of pristine white stones that covered the sweeping hillsides and sheltered beneath the ancient trees for as far as the eye could see. When he finally spoke, it was with that particular lilt that told her he was quoting from some arcane passage that had drifted up from his nearly perfect memory.

"To ignore a cemetery is to ignore a truth about life: At the end, we leave, hoping to be remembered."

She moved to his side and looked down at the gravestone. "You wanted her to be remembered," she said softly.

He nodded. "It bothered me," he confessed. "She wasn't the easiest person to like, but I didn't like to think of her lying here forgotten. I knew that if I didn't remember her, no one else would." He paused. "I always felt that I owed her at least that much."

She thought of Harm, lying half a world away in some unmarked grave, and of the boy, resting just over the hillside beneath a name that was not his own. They deserved to be remembered too. For all the deceit that Clay had perpetrated in this act, she could not deny that there was a sort of justice to it.

Without the boy's body to bury in his place, Harm would have had no monument to mark his passing. They didn't build memorials for men who died in clandestine wars, and if they did, they put them where the world would never see them.

By the same token, it was likely that the boy would not have had a grave at all. She knew that without Clay's insistence, the CIA would have been all too tempted to easily rid themselves of the burden with a simple burial at sea, rather than going to the trouble of explaining to the Republic of South Korea exactly why they were returning the dead body of one of its juvenile citizens. And even if they had returned him to South Korea, it would have been to a pauper's grave, if the government had decided a homeless street boy even merited a grave at all. At least here, Clay had seen that the boy had been consigned by a hero's burial to a hero's grave. She could not fault him entirely for that, for there was no doubt in her mind that Kim Hong-jin had been a hero. He had risked his life to follow Harm to the end. And –like Harm—he had met that end saving Clay's life.

The realization muted her anger somewhat, but it didn't resolve the problems that lay between her and Clay. The damage that had been done had little to do with Harm's death and the secrets surrounding it. It had a great deal to do with the trust that she had thought to be the bedrock of their relationship. He hadn't had faith in her love for him. He hadn't trusted her to forgive him. –And now, she wasn't sure that she could.

But that would have to keep for another day. She didn't have the strength to tackle it now. Besides, they still had the party to face …and Penny.

"You're right," she said finally. "You do owe it to her." She looked out over the cemetery at the thousands upon thousands of little white stones. "We owe it to all of them."

She thought of Harm and the boy, Singer and the child, of the Admiral…and Tim Fawkes …and the vast thousands of American dead that lay beneath them in this sacred ground. Looping her arm through his, she gently turned him back towards the parking lot.

In the distance, she saw the brilliant red '66 Corvette as it turned into the visitor parking and slowed to cruise the lot in search of a place to park. Her throat constricted as she recognized the car, closely followed by Bud and Harriet's mini-van. The top was down on the 'Vette, and though she half-expected to see a handsome, grinning Navy Commander behind the wheel, she recognized the familiar figures of Sturgis and Victor.

"Looks like the gang's all here," Clay muttered.

"Yeah," she said softly and gave his arm a gentle squeeze. "Let's go meet them."

Walking slowly, arm in arm, they picked their way around the graves. As they turned and made their way up the hillside after the small party that was starting to head for A.J. Chegwidden's grave, a bit of an old bible passage drifted through her mind. It was something about a time for every season. There had been a time for love, and a time for hate, a time for loss and time for tears. After all these years, the time for truth had finally come …and gone… and she imagined that somewhere down the road, there would be a time for forgiveness as well. But now was not that time.

Now was the time to remember.


End file.
